


a thimble of light for an acre of sky

by celaenos



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: After Camlann Merlin Big Bang, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Big Bang Challenge, Brother-Sister Relationships, F/F, Gen, Minor Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Redemption, Season/Series 05, giving morgana the ending she deserves, minor Arthur/Merlin, minor Morgana/Mithian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 23:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 36,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11931528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celaenos/pseuds/celaenos
Summary: Golden, beautiful, charming, pompous Arthur, drawing everyone to him like moths to a flame. She thinks of how he is the only other person in the world who understands what it's like to be Uther Pendragon's child, to crave the approval of that looming shadow and want to break free of it in the same breath. She hates him. Shehateshim.She hates him.It’s only part of the truth, even now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's hilarious and ironic that i post this on my first day of classes, what a weird celebration. thank you so much to the mods for all their hard work, thank you a thousand times to Az for the beta, any further mistakes are totally my own. and please check out the art [here on ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11910714) or [here on tumblr](http://littenstinymittens.tumblr.com/post/164712753703/art-for-celaenos-story-a-thimble-of-light-for-an) that my lovely artist Alyssa did for this story!!

The sunlight stings her eyes.

Aithusa stirs beside her, wings trying in vain to flap and protect her from whomever is up above. It doesn't sound like their usual captors. Morgana blinks and tries to cover her eyes with an arm.

She doesn't care; the food tastes worse each time it's brought, anyhow.

“Morgana?” a gasp of a voice calls out, so familiar that it stings. Morgana's whole body jerks away from it. “Get me a rope!” Arthur calls to someone behind him. Morgana tunes out his words, all of their words, as the men above scramble around. The shock of hearing Arthur's voice after so long—she's not altogether sure if she's breathing properly.

They're cautious as they lift her out. Of course they are. They all panic and drop her—any modicum of chivalry abandoned once they catch sight of Aithusa—leaving Morgana to crawl her way out the final bit, hands still shackled together, tugging Aithusa along uncomfortably.

Everyone takes a very deliberate step back. Morgana might laugh, if she had the energy.

Arthur has his sword drawn, pointing it at her. Same as the last time that they saw each other. Only then, Morgana had a sword of her own clutched in her hands as well, evening out the odds.

She’s magicless again, though. It's maddening, but Arthur doesn't know that yet—her only advantage. Aithusa cries out, confused and frightened, but Arthur's idiot men don't know that it's fear. They all react as if it’s a threat, swords drawn, stances at the ready. Arthur's trained them well. Morgana sticks her hands over towards him, a small comfort, but all she has for now.

Arthur's eyes track her the whole way. “You're shackled,” he states. Morgana wants to sneer back,  _of course, idiot; you'd be dead otherwise_ , but her throat is too dry to make out the words. Her captors like to leave her as dehydrated as possible. It makes her more docile, in their eyes. Arthur clues in just when Morgana was about to force something—anything—back as a retort. “They're blocking your magic,” he stares down at her hands, his sword dropping, limp in his hands. “How long have you been down there?”

“Long enough,” Morgana croaks.

“Get her some water,” Arthur says, shocking everyone around them into a stilted silence. None of the knights move. Merlin, ever the twat, jumps towards Arthur, protests ready and waiting on his tongue. “Don’t unchain her hands,” Arthur adds, cutting off whatever Merlin was about to say. So, her dear brother has finally learned a modicum of sense, then. She's exhausted, and her spine won’t straighten itself up all the way, but she quirks up an eyebrow and glares at the idiot tasked with quenching her thirst. (Not Merlin, thankfully. She’d sooner bite off his hand than accept another drink from him.) Her throat is too dry to pretend that she’s above needing it, and her lips are so chapped that it hurts to try and drink. The entire affair is painful and awkward, and by the end of it, more of the water winds up in the dirt than into her mouth.

Arthur never takes his eyes off of her once.

…

…

They don't kill her, which is shocking. And stupid.

She holds herself in place on top of the horse with her legs as best she can, but her muscles are too weak from being chained to the wall for the last three years, and she falls off.

It’s painful, and humiliating. Aithusa screams from the hold that Merlin has him in, beating his wings and crying out for her while Merlin does his level best to calm him down. Morgana takes great satisfaction in the fact that he can't; she calls out to him from the dirt herself, making shushing noises until he's still. All of the knights look at her warily. Arthur stands over her again, and she wants to dig her fingernails into his skin and drag till he bleeds to death. Even more so, when he reaches down and hauls her up into his arms, depositing her down onto the back of his own horse. Morgana kicks him, not caring a whit that it means she falls again. Arthur’s not patient with her—he never has been—but he's always been good at ignoring her, so he throws her up again and flings himself up behind her, almost in one smooth motion. She kicks the horse instead; cruel perhaps, but the only thing that she can think of, with his arms holding her firmly in place.

They tie her legs, as well, after that.

Arthur's hold on her the entire way back to Camelot makes her skin burn. Merlin glares at her from his horse the entire time. Morgana blows him a teasing kiss. Chapped lips and all.

…

…

Guinevere walks primly, now. Head held high. Her clothes, the finest. Red and purple velvets that make her skin glow. The crown— _Morgana’s crown—_ rests on top of her head and Morgana wants to reach up and claw it off with her bare hands. She wants to  _scream_ until her voice is raw.  _How dare you. How dare you stand where I should be. How dare you pity me. Fuck you._ She rages, jerking against her bindings, feeling like some kind of wild animal, unable to bring herself to care anymore. Maybe she is one, now. Maybe that’s all of her that’s left.

Gwen and Arthur bend their heads together and whisper, shooting glances back over at Morgana intermittently. They’ve grown comfortable with each other in the years that Morgana has been gone; no longer awkward and embarrassed with their affections. The knights and Merlin all shift about around them in various states of unease. The court room is stifling with tension. Morgana keeps her eyes, her hatred, directed at Gwen. It's easier, than looking over at Arthur. She digs her knees down into the stone floor and clenches her teeth to keep herself from screaming. The second that these shackles are gone from her wrists, she is going to kill them all.

“Take her to the room in the east wing,” Arthur orders, a few moments later. His voice loud and clear.

Everyone freezes.

“Arthur, surely—” Merlin and Gaius both jump forward, protests and counterarguments spat out in quick succession. Arthur—and Gwen—ignore them both.

“Do not unshackle her hands,” Arthur orders. “A guard is to be posted outside of her chambers at all times. She is to go nowhere in the castle alone,” his voice changes, and he spares her the first glance since pulling her out of her prison. “If I see anyone treating her without respect, they will be punished for it. She is a prisoner,” his eyes lock with hers, “but she is also my sister.” He stares at her silently for a moment that stretches on for ages. Her knees against the stone begin to ache. “I will never trust you again,” he says at last. He sounds almost sorry.

“You’d be a fool if you did,” she says, mockingly.

She is going to kill him, it’s only a matter of when.

…

…

Her chambers are different, though not so much when she actually takes the time to explore them. Four hours into being pushed a bit roughly into them by a knight she doesn’t recognize by name, she’s sick of sitting on the bed, trying to make herself comfortable with the extra space that she’s surrounded by now. Her spine still doesn’t seem to want to straighten all the way, and the rawness to her wrists from the shackles is screaming with all the new tension. She can hear a pair of knights milling about outside, otherwise, she’s alone.

Sort of.

She can hear all of the sounds of Camelot from her window. Children yelling, parents scolding, peasants and servants, going about their days, all sounds that had been blocked out from in her cage. It’s overwhelming. Too much sensation all at once.

Sleep eludes her, like always.

She sits up and inspects every nook and cranny that she can with her hands bound together, and her back sore. There’s still a burn mark on the wall from the night her candle caught flame while she was sleeping, her magic, spilling out with no direction to go safely. Her initials are carved into the wood beneath her bed, shaky eleven year old hand, awkwardly hunched for hours until she’d been satisfied. Arthur teased her for being sentimental and childish, but she found his own initials carved into his bedframe a week later. She never let him forget it, for months and months, it was always her counterargument to their bickering.

It used to make Uther smile and laugh. Morgana would light up at his approval, Arthur too. The pair of them, posed and ready to make the king joyful like no one else in the kingdom could ever manage.

The very thought makes Morgana want to scream, now.

She sits down very slowly onto the floor, her legs crossed up underneath her. Morgana closes her eyes, holding her hands out in front of her, and breathes, slowly. She feels for her magic, for the pulse inside of her that she now has a name for, control over.  _It’s quiet again_. Silence is what she’s used to, now. Her own noises and Aithusa’s, nothing else. No other sound escaped through the stone and dirt unless the door was open above them. Morgana doesn’t really want to be alone with her own thoughts anymore, though, not when they’re still racing between uncertainty and distrust and disbelief. She needs a plan. A solid plan of action, something elaborate and underhanded to claim back her well-earned place here without meddling from her fucking brother, his infuriating servant, or her former best friend.

She breathes and for possibly the thousandth time in the last three years, tries to blast the shackles off of her wrists.

She fails, like always.

Frustrated and exhausted by the emotional toils of being brought back to Camelot by Arthur himself, she finds her eyes finally beginning to droop. Morgana crawls up off of the floor, and makes herself as comfortable in her bed as she can manage, still in dirty clothes, hands still bound, Aithusa who knows where.

Her dreams offer only nightmares, as always.

…

…

Gwen greets her in the morning. For half a second, Morgana forgets that she is supposed to hate her now. For half a second, it’s like they’re back five years in the past: Gwen’s voice pulling Morgana into wakefulness; the soft covers of the bed that she’s slept in since she was ten years old; the way the sun creeps into her bedroom window; Gwen, crawling up to share breakfast and plan their day before she has to go complete her chores. For half a second, it’s as if nothing has changed.

And then, Morgana remembers, and opens her eyes.

Gwen is dressed regally, a golden yellow silk that suits her, Morgana’s crown still resting lightly on top of her head. She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t glare or frown either.

“Morning,” she offers, standing awkwardly in the doorway. Morgana can see Elyan hovering behind her, protective and glaring down at Morgana.

Morgana says nothing to either of them.

Gwen rolls her eyes at Elyan’s reaction as she steps further inside the room. It’s so familiar, that Morgana nearly opens her mouth to tease her for it. Nearly sits up to toss a flirty remark at Elyan, just to make them both wince and laugh. Nearly reaches out for Gwen, before the shackles dig further into her wrists, rubbed raw. It might as well be years ago, Uther teaching her a lesson in the dungeons. She winces, unable to help the reaction and Gwen’s eyes shoot down to them instantly; finally, a frown. “Elyan,” she calls, “have Merlin bring some ointment from Gaius’s supply.”

“Gwen,” he protests, “I don’t think—”

“Now please,” she silences him with a look. “I’m sure that Leon will make sure I don’t somehow die in your absence.”

“Don’t joke about that,” he frowns, shooting a pointed look down at Morgana.

“She can’t hurt me,” Gwen says, turning to meet Morgana’s eyes. “And perhaps someday, she won’t want to anymore.”

Morgana scoffs at her, and  _horrifyingly,_ Gwen smiles at the sight. She catches herself, and Morgana is delighted by the awkwardness that follows as she tries to shrug it off.

“How did you sleep?” she asks, polite as ever. Or perhaps she’s merely reacting on instinct. The two of them, in this room, Morgana in her bed, Gwen hovering above her. It’s jarring. The last time that Morgana saw her, they were holding swords to each other’s throats. Morgana was bleeding, but she’s always been a natural with a sword. Gwen had pled with her, but she hadn’t hesitated once Morgana attacked. Even through all her anger, Morgana remembers feeling a twinge of pride at that.

It’s just as annoying now as it had been in the moment.

“How do you think?” she snarls.

Gwen nearly moves to open the curtains further, but she catches herself just as Elyan comes puffing back into the room, chest heaving as he holds out the ointment and quickly checks that Morgana hasn’t murdered Gwen in his absence.

Morgana expects them both to leave her to it now, but instead, Gwen takes the ointment and sits down on the edge of Morgana’s bed, much to Elyan’s dismay. She holds out a hand, still tough, still showing signs that even as a queen, Gwen is willing to get her hands dirty for herself and others. “May I?” she asks, hand hovering in wait.

Morgana scoffs again and tugs further into herself, wincing at the jolt of pain the action brings. When she glances down, there’s some blood. She bites at her lip. “Morgana,” Gwen says. And only because there is no pity, only reproach in her tone, does Morgana bother to stick her hands forward. Gwen takes them into her lap with unbearable gentleness and swiftly gets to work. Elyan hovers in the doorway, but after a few minutes, Morgana has forgotten him entirely, lost in the soothing motions of Gwen spreading the ointment on her wrists in slow circles. It takes ages, the two of them sitting together in perfect wordlessly agreed upon silence.

Morgana hates herself for letting out a groan of relief when the ointment first touches her skin. If Gwen had reacted in any way other than continuing to rub it on in small circles, Morgana would have jerked her hands back. As it is, once Gwen is done, she stares and Morgana is unable to read her expression, but it’s not warm. It’s not forgiveness.

Morgana doesn’t want her fucking forgiveness anyway. She wants to reach up and tear the crown from Gwen’s head, then maybe push her out of the window. She  _could._ The thought hits her just as Gwen rises and steps away, almost as if it hits Gwen in the same moment. She smooths down her skirts, rolls her shoulders, and looks somewhere off behind Morgana’s head. “Someone will bring you food,” she says, before turning and walking out the door, leaving Morgana to the silence yet again.

She flops back into the bed ungracefully, and tries again, and again, to reach for her magic.

…

…

Merlin shows up in the afternoon, distrust in his every move as his eyes scan her. Morgana responds in kind. The memory of her throat closing up, choking and reaching for her breath in a panic, his eyes, sad, resigned, and pathetic as he turned away from her in cowardice, jumps to the front of her mind in a flash, as it has each time that she has seen him since.

She’s up out of her bed and in front of him in an instant, pushing herself into his personal space and taunting him.

“I’m not going to let you hurt him,” he warns, in tones very calm and very plain, arrogant as ever.

“We’ll see,” she sing-songs, and turns towards the window, a dismissal even as he hesitates for a few moments.

She doesn’t catch her breath back until he’s been gone for over an hour.

Arthur never comes. He never could deny her anything; she guesses he knows that as well as she does, and this is his precaution against it.

…

…

Days pass, a servant shows up at her door in the morning with food, and exchanges it again in the late afternoon. Elyan, Merlin, and the rest of the knights all posture around her hallway and glare, sometimes Morgana taunts them, sometimes she ignores them, depending on her mood. She asks for Aithusa every single day and is never given a straight answer other than: not dead. The frustration on the knights faces proves that he’s misbehaving, and Morgana smirks. Delighted by the confused grimace on Merlin’s face as she overhears him trying to explain that the dragon won’t listen to anyone.

Anyone but  _her._

The days turn into a week, then two, and Morgana is still lacking for a proper plan. Without access to her magic it’s useless. She could take a few people down, but they would catch her and she’d only be thrown down into the dungeons, or finally executed for all her crimes. It’s not worth an escape attempt until she has a real opportunity to do something with it. Unless it’s Arthur that she takes down with her.

But she hasn’t seen him since her first night back in the castle.

She hears him though, on the third day.

She’s trying—again—to blast the shackles from her wrist when her meditation is interrupted. Arthur’s voice cuts through any calm she was working toward, mixed in with Gwen and Merlin’s. Merlin, brazen as ever, is shouting about in the hallways, uncaring who might be listening in.

“She’s killed people Arthur! After all that she’s done, to just let her sit in her room…” he huffs, trailing off before barreling right back to it. Morgana wonders why Arthur hasn’t shut him up yet. “After all that Camelot has suffered—your own father—how can you not—”

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur snaps, barely contained rage in his voice.

Morgana takes immense satisfaction in Merlin’s chastised silence.

“He has a point,” Gwen says, a few beats later and with much more gentleness. “Are we just going to… leave her in her chambers for the rest of her life? What’s the plan here Arthur?”

She sounds practical. Regal. Morgana feels her strong hands rubbing salve gently onto her raw skin and wants to scream.

“Camelot will have justice,” Arthur says. “She’s captured. She has no access to her magic,” he pauses, and Morgana presses her ear to the door. “I’m not going to rule like my father,” he finally adds, quiet but firm. Morgana’s face jerks away from the door as if she’s been shocked. Clenching her teeth, she forces herself back to listen.

“Arthur—” Merlin starts.

“I loved her, once,” Arthur says. Morgana’s nails dig into the wood, and something inside her spasms at Arthur’s words, at the genuine way they just… fall out of his mouth, threatening her knees to lock. “I’ve known her my whole life. This wasn’t—”

“Arthur,” Gwen says, with much more empathy than Merlin.

“If she were threatening your life at this very moment, I would kill her,” he says, and there is nothing but truth in his voice. “But not in cold blood. Not an execution.”

“She’s threatening everyone’s lives as long as she is in the castle, waiting around and planning your downfall, and you  _know_ it Arthur,” Merlin says, but there’s a note of defeat to it. Resignation. He’s not yelling or storming around arrogantly anymore, Morgana can tell without having to look at him. “She’s not going to stop trying to take your crown.”

They walk further down the hall, footsteps the only answer that Morgana receives. Merlin isn’t  _wrong._ That crown belongs to her, no matter what misguided attempt at mercy or kindness, Arthur is trying to display here, she will not show him any in return. Not ever again.

…

…

Guinevere, she sees every day. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes not until late afternoon. Each day, Gwen arrives, sits on her bed, and takes Morgana’s hands into her lap. Rubbing slow, gentle circles of the ointment until Morgana’s skin stops stinging at each new movement of her body.

They never share a word between them. Gwen waits until Morgana holds her hands out, all the permission that she needs, then does her job, then leaves. It becomes routine for them both.

Morgana might actually be dying of boredom, so, she opens her mouth the third week in. “Is my horse still in the stables?” she’s not sure why that question comes out. She liked her horse fine, but she’s never had a particularly strong attachment to her. Nowhere near like the bond she shares with Aithusa.

Gwen seems surprised by the question as well, but she recovers quicker. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Where’s Aithusa?”

“Is that the dragon’s name?” she asks casually, but Morgana can see the calculations running behind her eyes. She nods, desperate for the answer. “He’s being held far away from the horses.”

“I want to see him.”

Gwen’s hands still. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

“He’ll destroy Camelot to get to me if you don’t let him soon,” Morgana warns. From the way that Gwen bites at her lower lip, Morgana knows that he’s already come close to doing so. She says nothing. When Gwen rises, she hesitates in the door, the same as the first morning.

“Maybe,” she offers.

Morgana breathes a little easier, that night.

…

…

Her first escape attempt happens a month into her new captivity. Arthur can dress it up with her old chambers, better food, gentler guards—but the shackles are still on her wrists, her magic is still stolen away.

It’s still a cage, whether it’s a hole in the ground or not. This room, in many ways, always was.

A boy comes with her lunch and the spoon she’d stolen two weeks ago has been painfully filed down into a dull—but useful—edge. She lunges at his throat with it and he screams for help. Morgana kicks Gwaine in the groin, the edge of the spoon still in the boy’s throat, and nearly has her shackled hands around his sword hilt when Elyan gets a hold of her and throws her back onto the bed. Arthur appears in the doorway—Merlin beside him—a few moments later. Gaius carefully tugging the spoon out of the boy and stopping up the blood. He’ll live; it was never sharp enough, never inside him long enough, Morgana smirks at them all anyway.

Arthur still says nothing.

Morgana still wakes in her chambers the next morning, and the next, and the next. Unharmed. Still alive. Still a captive.

The knights bring her meals now, on a rotation, and they check for silverware each time.

Elyan never leaves the room while Gwen is inside of it, but she still comes, ointment in hand, silent and gentle, her face giving away nothing. Morgana thinks about clawing at her with just her nails, pressing her knee into her throat, shoving a pillow over her face. She could hurt her before Elyan could do anything—kill, no—but she could hurt her. It’s madness, that Gwen keeps showing up each day, that Arthur  _allows_ it, that Morgana does nothing to stop it.

And yet.

…

…

Her nightmares return, in this room.

(As if they ever truly left to begin with.)

She dreams of her mother, or rather, of a woman whom she  _thinks_ is her mother. They told Morgana that she had nearly died giving birth to her, and it changed Vivienne forever, weakened her, until death ended up taking her a few months later, anyway. Morgana never thought to challenge this tale, not until she learned that Gorlois wasn’t her father by birth. Not until she learned that Morgause was her sister, Arthur her brother. That the thrumming she could feel growing inside of her was magic.

She has far too much time on her hands to think of such things, now. Dead mothers, it seems, are another thing that she and dear Arthur have in common.

Morgana has no memory of Igraine, she was only a few months old when the woman died giving birth to Arthur. Not enough time for memories to form, though from time to time she would lie to Arthur when they were children, claims of Igraine that were merely concoctions of tales Morgana had overheard in her time in the castle. It left Arthur hanging on her every word, his full undivided attention directed on her.

It made her feel special.

They would steal apples from the kitchens, stuff them into their pockets and hide out in the courtyard. There was a tree, taller than all the rest, and primed for climbing. Arthur would give her a pair of his breeches to borrow, and they’d scurry up almost to the height of the fence. Legs dangling, munching on the apples while they wondered about their mothers.

Uther never knew, as far as Morgana knows, but Gorlois did. He found them once and laughed, squinted up and smiling as they froze, waiting to be scolded. Her father merely waved, and winked, then walked on.

Arthur had been astounded. Uther would never have winked at them. He would have yelled until they scrambled down, scolded Arthur, glared at Morgana, then sent guards to make sure that they didn’t climb back up.

He might have taken the tree down altogether.

Morgana rolls over in her bed—her prison—and presses her wrists against the shackles until she feels her skin break. Images of Arthur flash before her mind without her permission. His crooked smile, tossing her an apple and laughing as she beats him up the tree; his breathless laughter as they sword fight in the courtyard, the absolute pride when she managed to win, pinning him into the dirt; his frown, when Uther scolded, lied, sent her to her chambers; bickering with him, affection laced underneath both of their barbs; standing together in the courtroom, while Uther reigned down judgement, the shared looks between them, the pride and frustration on Arthur’s face whenever she stood up to Uther; the sinking, sharp feeling in her gut when she learned the truth of it, that he was her brother; the rage, that boiled and grew inside of her with every dismissal, every time that he reminded her of Uther. Every time that she was looked over in favor of him. Golden, beautiful, charming, pompous Arthur, drawing everyone to him like moths to a flame.

She thinks of how he is the only other person in the world who understands what it's like to be Uther Pendragon's child, to crave the approval of that looming shadow and want to break free of it in the same breath.

Her magic thrums inside of her, spilling out and pressing so tightly against her shackles that it almost,  _almost_ explodes. She pictures Arthur’s face, full of shock, gaping at her as she was pulled out of the well. How he stepped towards her, his hand reaching out before he realized and stopped, hanging limply against his thigh. She reaches, pulling and begging for her magic to come back to her, thinking about how you don’t stop loving someone, just because you hate them.

She gasps, her magic still restrained, and falls back against the bed in exhaustion.

She hates him. She  _hates_ him.  _She hates him._

It’s only part of the truth, even now.

When Morgana finally falls asleep, the nightmares still come. Angry and wild as ever. She wakes in a cold sweat, her cuts reopened, her sheets stained, her magic still far from reach.

…

…

Her captivity lasts for a solid three months. Gwen comes to her every day. (She stills, at the sight of Morgana’s newly blood crusted wrists a month in. She sits down slowly, takes her time with the ointment, says nothing, then leaves. But there is a frown playing on the edge of her lips the entire time.)

Aithusa burns a knight’s arm, and Morgana is finally taken to him. Seven guards, and fucking Merlin surround her while Arthur looks down from a window above. She ignores them all, coos until Aithusa is calm, and smirks when he lunges at a knight who steps too close. She watches the fear flicker in everyone’s eyes, hears Merlin murmuring underneath his breath and laughs wildly when Aithusa ignores him, only looks to Morgana, only stills when she asks him to.

Arthur threatens to have the beast killed and Morgana screams until her voice is raw, calls to every bit of magic that’s inside of her and her shackles crack against the force.

Merlin looks afraid, for the first time since Morgana has been back. Aithusa burns down the stables, cries for Morgana, and Arthur finally screams for everyone to be silent.

Morgana does not listen.

She screams and screams and screams until Arthur is standing before her, ordering her to stop, ordering her to calm Aithusa, ordering his knights not to touch him.

“If you can control him, he will live,” Arthur says, standing far too close. “If you try to hurt  _anyone_ with this beast, I will have it killed along with you. Do you understand me?”

Morgana spits in his face and laughs.

It’s not a slight that can be overlooked, not by a king. Whole sister or half-sister, it makes no difference. Arthur grabs her and Aithusa rages until the two of them are tangled together in a heap on the ground, Aithusa’s wings flapping around them while Merlin and the knights yell out. Morgana wraps her shackled hands around Arthur’s neck and squeezes. “Let him go, or I’ll kill you where you lie,” she hisses.

Arthur shoves at her, but Morgana has nothing left to lose, her strength is back now that she’s not in a hole in the ground. He chokes, and the quick flash of… not fear, not love, but something in between, stalls Morgana enough for him to get her off of him. Now he is the one pressing her down into the dirt.

“Stop him Morgana,” he wheezes. “Stop him, and I’ll let you see him every day.”

Morgana calls, and Aithusa crouches beside her. The knights surround them, but Arthur holds up his hand.

“I’m going to kill you,” she warns Arthur. “Keeping me here is foolish.”

“Perhaps,” he says, and somehow the teasing smirk of their youth spills out onto his face. “But then again, you’ve always thought that I was.”

“Don’t smile at me,” Morgana snaps. “The only reason I haven’t killed you yet are these shackles, and mark my words, I’ll get them off.”

“Is that?” he asks. “The only reason?”

 _“Yes,”_  Morgana snaps, but there’s a horrible inflection to her voice. It comes out far more like a question than a promise.

…

…

Unbelievably, she is no longer confined to her room, after.

Arthur lets her out once a day to start, to see Aithusa. Guards follow Morgana closely, only wary with the dragon by her side. Merlin happens to be there every time that she visits Aithusa, his eyes never leaving Morgana once.

Morgana coos to Aithusa, watches the way Merlin’s shoulders hunch in a pout every time he tries to move to control Aithusa and fails.

“He doesn’t like rats,” she bites, stepping around Merlin and holding her hands out to Aithusa.

“Rats?” Merlin scoffs.

“Traitors, cowards, betrayers, take your pick Merlin.”

“I’m sorry?” he laughs, “you think that’s  _me?_ After all the things that  _you’ve_ done—”

“Did I poison you?” she snaps. There’s immense satisfaction in the guilty set of Merlin’s shoulders, the way that he cannot bring himself to meet Morgana’s eye for the rest of the afternoon.

“No,” he finally retorts, “but I never kidnapped and tortured you.”

Morgana’s nostrils flare, and Aithusa rises at her reaction, hissing at Merlin until Morgana calls him off. “The difference, Merlin, is that I’ve never pretended otherwise.”

“Morgana, you’ve—”

“I was your friend,” Morgana spits out. “And I was terrified.” Merlin freezes on the spot, and Morgana advances, unable to help herself. “I had no idea what my sister was doing, and you condemned me to death without giving me a chance. You got what you deserved,” she snaps, and turns away from him before she says another word.

“For what it’s worth,” he says softly, a few moments later, “it was one of the hardest decisions that I’ve ever made. And I hated every second of it. I didn’t see another option to end the spell. You were bound to it.”

“For what it’s worth,” Morgana kisses Aithusa and walks out of the stables. “I don’t care.”

Leon chases after her—her assigned guard for the day—and as they make their way back to her chambers, they run into Gwen and another woman. She looks familiar, though Morgana can’t place the name. She offers Morgana an unsure smile after looking to Gwen for guidance.

“How’s your dragon?” Gwen asks.

“Biding his time,” Morgana smirks and stalks past them both, hearing Gwen sigh as she goes.

…

…

She’s bored, is the problem.

It’s been months and she’s still no closer to getting herself out of these blasted shackles then she was on her first night here. Taunting Gwen, lashing out at Merlin, threatening Arthur, all it’s succeeding in doing is keeping herself locked away in this room, with no access to anything that could help her escape.

So, she makes a decision.

Arthur appears to think that instead of sentencing her to death, he can appeal to Morgana’s kinder sensibilities. She’s fooled him before; she may as well try her hand at it again.

She smiles at Gwen the next time that she comes to Morgana’s chambers with ointment. Slowly, she starts making conversation, small things, a little more each day, so that Gwen won’t grow suspicious.

Gwen is smart, so she’s still suspicious anyway, but, once upon a time, the two of them loved each other, and Gwen is still more optimistic than Morgana has ever been. So, if she is careful, if she offers up bits of truths, she might be able to pull this off.

It doesn’t mean that it’s not maddening.

Three weeks into her decision, Guinevere steps into her chamber without the ointment, without food, and holds out her hand. “Are you hungry?”

Morgana stares at her hand, at the open, but unsure look on her face and swallows. She rises and follows Gwen out into the hall, but she does not take her hand.

It’s strange to be back in the great hall, stranger still to sit and dine with Gwen. The woman from before walks in, and Gwen introduces her as Princess Mithian. Morgana narrows her eyes, delighting in the way it causes Mithian to turn away and busy herself with her food.

“And what are you doing here, in Camelot?” Morgana asks, popping a grape into her mouth.

“My father sent me here for my safety temporarily. My kingdom is being destroyed.” Mithian looks back up and meets Morgana’s eyes, finally showing some backbone as she glares. “By people I think you know, actually.”

“I know a lot of people,” Morgana shrugs.

Mithian holds her gaze, popping a grape of her own into her mouth. Morgana smirks and Guinevere rolls her eyes.

…

…

They start letting Morgana out of her chambers more and more, but she still never manages to run into Arthur. It cannot be a coincidence.

She dines with Gwen and Mithian for lunch, visits Aithusa in the afternoons, and takes walks in the gardens before they put her back inside of her chambers for dinner.

It’s in the gardens where she sees him.

“Morgana?” he gasps.

He’s taller than she is now, no longer a boy, and Morgana doesn’t know what to do with the pounding inside of her chest. She staggers forward, “Mordred,” reaching for him and wincing at the way he steps back from her, only for a minute. Morgana drops her arms.

His eyes follow them. “Your magic…”

“Want to help out an old friend?” she says, only half teasing. Mordred’s face twists with pain, and he takes another step away from her, but his arms reach out towards her, almost with a mind of their own.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t…”

“You’re a  _knight,_ ” she bites, looking at his clothes. “ _His_ knight.”

“I…” he grips at the corner of his pants, and a blast of air surrounds them before he manages to get control of himself back. “I’m sorry Morgana,” he gasps, and runs away from her.

“Fuck,” Morgana breathes.

…

…

The thing about rage is that it simmers and simmers until there is no possible way to get rid of it unless you explode. Morgana has been so angry for so long, she doesn’t know how not to be anymore. Uther lied to her, then dismissed her, over and over and over again until she couldn’t think of anything but his ending.

But when it came…

She thought she would feel differently. Happy, maybe. Or at the very least relief.

_Something._

All she felt was sad, hollow, and numb.

She convinced herself this was because it wasn’t over yet. There was still Arthur to defeat. Guinevere to dethrone. Morgause to avenge. Emrys to destroy. Then _—_ then it would finally be over, and she would be free and relieved, and  _happy._

That has to be true, otherwise… all she has is her rage.

That can’t be all that there is.

…

…

Morgana sits on top of her bed, legs crossed, shackled arms in her lap, eyes closed and  _breathes._

She’s tried this a hundred—a thousand—who knows how many times, at this point, to try only makes her angrier, but she can’t seem to stop. If she  _stops_ then she will have given up, and  _that—_

She can feel her magic inside of her, begging to come out. She screams in frustration, and then, Arthur is standing in front of her.

“Morgana.”

It’s been awhile since she’s last seen him. And the last time that she saw him was — she grits her teeth and tilts her head towards him, saying nothing.

“I’ve got something I’d like to show you,” he waits, holding a hand out to help her, gallant as always. It’s ingrained in him; he cannot help it even if he wanted to. She doubts that he wants to. It makes him feel superior and kind all at once.  _Prat_.

“Do I have a choice?” she sneers, ignoring his outstretched hand.

He stares at her, silent for a beat, then he nods. “You do.”

 _“Why?”_  she snaps, feeling her hatred coiling tightly inside of her. “Why am I here? Why haven’t you killed me? It’s been  _months,_ ” she screeches, unable to control herself any longer. Jumping off the bed and staring him down, he only flinches the smallest bit as she lunges for him, a smirk on both their lips as they stare each other down.

Arthur swallows, quiet as he says, “Because you and I were friends, once. Because despite everything that you’ve done… no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to forget that.”

“Your foolishness will be the death of you.”

He  _smiles_ at her. The idiot. “Maybe. Or maybe, it’ll be the thing that brings you back to me.”

Morgana cackles at him, shoving at his chest and scratching him. “Never,” she hisses.

“Are you going to come anyway?” he asks once she’s stopped.

“No,” she turns and sits back down onto the bed, and Arthur leaves her alone.

He comes back, every single day, to ask her again and again and again.

_Idiot._

…

…

People start to forget that she’s dangerous. These shackles adorned on her wrists have settled them into a false sense of security; the knights still watch her sharply, and Merlin, as ever-present and mosquito-like as always, but the rest of the castle…

She’s dressed like she used to again; bold, bright colors, there’s hardly any black to her wardrobe now. Her hair is clean and her curls brushed, if not for the shackles adorned to her wrists, she looks almost exactly like she used to, years before.

Just a girl.

The king’s ward, someone who’s lived inside of these walls all her life. The same cook is down in the kitchen who used to save her biscuits. Fiona smiles at Morgana on instinct before she remembers.

She still offers up a treat, whether it’s to stave off Morgana’s anger, or just muscle memory, Morgana has no idea. The biscuit is delicious either way, and Morgana smiles back at her before she knows what’s happening. It feels almost strange on her face.

Stranger still when she turns round and knocks directly into Mordred.

“Morgana,” he holds out his hands to steady her, and… he’s taller than her now. She knew that, already, but it’s alarming, now that she’s much closer to him. He blinks down at her as if he is coming to the same realization that she is, or he’s reading her thoughts again. Morgana isn’t sure.

“Hello,” she nibbles at the rest of her biscuit, refusing to give him the upper hand, displaying her shackles right in front of his face. He winces at the sight of them.  _Good._

“Hello,” he mumbles back. “How — how are you?”

“How  _am I?_ ” she chuckles, popping the last of the biscuit into her mouth with a flourish, rattling the chains on her wrists. “Oh, splendid, clearly. And you?”

Mordred swallows, taking a step back from her. He’s so different from the boy that she knew. He used to be confident. Sure of himself and his powers, even when he feared for his life. Now, he bows his head to  _Arthur._

“He’d kill you if he knew what you are, you know that right?”

“He hasn’t killed you.”

“Not yet,” Morgana shrugs, walking out of the kitchens and into the hall. “I’m sure in time, he’ll try.”

“Do you really?” Mordred asks, following her. “He’s your brother. Do you really think that he’d kill his own sister?”

He’s genuinely asking. It’s not an accusation. He’s desperate for the answer, because if Arthur will kill Morgana, then surely, he will kill Mordred.

“He’s not as gallant as everyone thinks,” Morgana says, truthfully. “And also, he is.”  _Also true._  “He hates magic just as much as Uther. I don’t know why I’m alive, other than as a way to try and show that he’s more merciful than his father.”

“Your father too,” Mordred reminds her.

Morgana whips around and shoves him into the wall, pressing her shackles into his neck. “Uther was never my father.”

“But he was,” Mordred chokes. “Whether you hated him or not.”

“He never claimed me.” She  _hates_ the way that her voice cracks over the words. The way that she sounds so young, so lost, so hurt.

“And yet you want claim over his crown.” The only way that he is able to speak so well right now is his magic. He’s only using a little, just enough to choke out his words, shaking the air between them.

“I deserve it,” she snaps, shoving him harder,  _pleading_ with her magic to escape.

“Do you?” he’s genuinely asking again.

“Break these shackles,” she says, instead of answering him. “Tell me why you’re here.”

“For Arthur.”

She digs the metal into his throat, then shoves herself away from him in disgust. Merlin jumps out of nowhere, blocking her path. “What are the two of you doing?” he accuses.

Morgana turns, watching the way that Mordred straightens, glaring at Merlin with all the hatred that Morgana feels. At least they still agree on something. “Plotting a death,” Morgana says, flicking some hair over her shoulder. “Want to help?”

Merlin sneers, his whole body vibrating with anger, and when Morgana turns, she knows that Mordred is saying something to him. The rage on Merlin’s face grows with Mordred’s words. He’s always been wary of the druid boy, since the day that they saved him. Morgana can’t imagine ever working with Merlin like that now, trusting him. Thinking him her  _friend._ Now, she just wants to rip his smug face apart.

“If you hurt Arthur—”

“You’ll  _what?_ ” Morgana snaps, pressing their noses together. Merlin shakes with rage, but doesn’t back down; still, the most arrogant servant ever to grace the halls of Camelot.

Mordred clears his throat from behind them, and they both turn in unison. Whatever he says to Merlin via his thoughts, it has Merlin jerking back and fuming. Curious, Morgana stares them both down.

“—I’ll stop you,” Merlin finally promises, then walks away in a huff.

“Well, that was interesting,” Morgana says, walking back over to Mordred. “Why is he so afraid of you? Because of your magic?”

“Something like that,” Mordred says, non-committal.

Morgana narrows her eyes. When it becomes clear that he’s not going to elaborate—for now at least—Morgana shrugs. “Do you know what it is that Arthur is so keen on showing me?”

Mordred goes rigid. Well, _that’s_ interesting.

“Do you?”

A single jerk of a nod, then Mordred tries to walk away. Morgana grabs his arm, clutching tighter when she feels him try to shake her off with magic, and then he sighs. “Please don’t — there’s a girl in the dungeons. That’s why I was in the kitchen — I was going to steal a few biscuits for her.”

“What?”

“She’s a druid,” Mordred admits, voice dropped low. Morgana’s eyes go wide and she motions for him to go on. “Her name is Kara. Her family is dead because of Arthur’s extension of Uther’s laws,” his voice catches. “I’ve known her since she was born, her father was my friend. She was caught trying to poison Arthur, and, I pleaded with him for her life. She’s only eleven.”

“And Arthur is keeping her in the dungeons?”

Mordred hangs his head. “If I can’t convince her to apologize, he might have her executed for treason.”

Morgana jerks back. “Arthur is threatening to execute a child?” she gapes.

“She very publicly tried to kill him, denounced Camelot, and promised that she would do it again if freed.”

“I’ve done that,” Morgana snaps. “He’s not threatening to execute me.”

“Well…”

Morgana slaps his arm.  _“Is he?”_

Mordred shrugs, looking genuinely distressed. “People are calling for both your deaths. Arthur says that he won’t, but…”

“The people are hungry for blood,” Morgana says, clenching her hands into tight fists. “Of course they are. People are nothing if not consistently terrible to each other.”

“Morgana, I don’t think Arthur will—”

“Have a lovely afternoon Mordred,” Morgana brushes past him. “If you ever feel like popping up to my chambers and helping out the woman who once saved  _your_ life,” she holds up her wrists, “do know that you’re welcome.”

He’s still calling after her once she stalks away, his voice echoing off the castle walls behind her.

…

…

“How  _dare_ you,” Morgana accuses, shoving the great hall doors open with a bang. Arthur, and everyone in the room jumps to attention at once. Leon tries to push himself in front of Arthur, and Morgana shoves him without her magic, sending him into Gwaine and Elyan’s arms.

Guinevere and Mithian both tense up beside Arthur, but her brother doesn’t flinch as she stalks up and shoves her face directly into his. “Morgana,” he greets her casually.

“You’re going to execute  _a child,_ ” she sneers. “All because she has magic. What? Am I next? Am I going with her? Is this all some sadistic joke you’re playing out?” she shakes her wrists at him, whacking him in the head before Elyan gets his arms around her middle and pulls her back. “I’ll kill you first,” she threatens. “If I’m going to die, then I will take you with me,  _dear brother._ ”

“Morgana,” he says, sounding frustrated now. He sighs, then looks at his court. “Leave us,” he orders.

“Arthur—” Merlin, of course, jumps forward in protest. But one look from Arthur and Gwen has everyone else reluctantly filing out, Elyan the last as he stands beside Merlin, still holding Morgana back.

“Thank you Elyan,” Arthur motions for him to let her go, and Morgana stomps down onto his foot for good measure, satisfied with the pained grunt that she receives from him in return. “Merlin,” Arthur warns, and Elyan drags him out.

“I swear Arthur, I will—”

“Would you like an apple?” Arthur asks, sitting back down and reaching for one.

Morgana stares down at him.

“It’s not poisoned I assure you.”

“Yes, because your word is so true.”

Arthur takes a large bite, then offers it back out to her. She only takes it because the growl of her stomach gives her hunger away. She paces around the table while she eats, refusing to sit down and pretend that the two of them are sharing a meal together like when they were children.

“I have no desire—nor any plans—to execute you, or a child,” he says, casually leaning back in his chair. “But as I have told you before, I will do what I have to.”

Morgana whirls on him. “If you start killing children, then you are no better than Uther.”

 _“I know,”_  he snaps. “Which is why I’ve been asking for your help every day for the last two weeks.”

Morgana slowly lowers herself down into the chair beside him.

“The druids are angry,” his fist presses down against the wooden table. “They’re joining up with the Saxons, who are brutal and ruthless, willing to kill anyone who inconveniences their path. Many of my people have died at their hands. I think you know them,” he turns, finally looking like a menacing king, slouching upon his throne. “In another universe, perhaps you would be leading them against me, had someone else pulled you out of that well.”

“Perhaps I would,” Morgana reaches over and plucks the apple he had been reaching for out his hands, biting it loudly. She feels like two apples, today.

Arthur rolls his eyes and reaches for another. “Good thing it was me who pulled you out then.”

It’s Morgana’s turn to roll her eyes. “Yes,” she takes another bite of the apple, jingling her shackles pointedly. “It’s been lovely.”

“I’d love to trust you enough to take those off,” he says, quietly. “But for all that you call me a fool, I’m not that much of one.”

“So, what happens now?” Morgana sets the apple core down on the table, locking eyes with him. “You keep sending me off to my chambers every time that I annoy you? Let Merlin follow me around everywhere being a prat? Send Guinevere to try and placate me, or appeal to our old friendship? Threaten my death when I don’t behave?”

“No,” Arthur says, but he doesn’t elaborate.

“Then what Arthur? What the hell are we doing? Because I can’t take much more of it.”

Arthur reaches for her on instinct, then sees the flash in her eyes and stalls. “What I’d  _like_ ,” he sits up, not regally, just not backing down. “Is to have my friend back. What I’d like, is to get to know my sister now that we know who we are to each other, properly. What I’d like, is for you to apologize for everything that you’ve done to me, and to Camelot.”

Morgana laughs, cold and bitter as it echoes off the stone walls surrounding them. “Is that all?”

“No,” he leans forward now, gripping one of her hands and holding her in place. Not roughly, but firmly. “I’d also like peace between you and Guinevere, to finally get some bloody peace from the endless bickering between you and Merlin, to understand more about magic, and if it can indeed be used for anything other than evil acts,  _and_ maybe, also some cake,” he smirks. “But I don’t actually need you for that. I’d just like it.”

Morgana jerks her hands back and smacks him on the head. It has the exact opposite effect that she wants—he beams at her, teasing and fond and something inside of her gut twists violently at the sight. “You really  _are_ a fool then,” she snaps, but there’s no bite to it, and it only makes the prat smile brighter at her in return.

“What, you don’t think that I can manage to get cake without you?”

“Idiot,” she mutters.

“Because I am a very capable man. I could  _make_ myself a cake if I truly wanted.”

Morgana barks out a laugh, picturing him covered in flour, banging around in the kitchens helplessly. Begging for Merlin or Gwen to take over. She rolls her eyes. “You’d die of starvation first.”

“You wouldn’t take pity on me?”

“No.”

They stare at each other silently, talking about something much more than cake now. “I would,” he says softly. “If it were you.”

Morgana jerks away from him in surprise, and it takes her a moment to get her voice back. “Why?” she sneers. “Because we  _share blood?_  Does that really matter so much? After everything that’s happened…” she trails off, feeling like there’s suddenly no air in the room. Like she’s suffocating. Arthur stares at her, his face unchanged.

 _Yes,_  Morgana thinks, answering her own question.

“Yes,” Arthur says.

“You’re foolish,” she croaks out, and  _runs._

His words ring out in her ears, long after she is back inside of her chambers, trying not to scream with something that she cannot name anymore. 


	2. Chapter 2

She sees Arthur often, now. There are rarely guards posted outside of her door, and she is almost granted free reign of the castle.

Each new interaction that she shares with Arthur is as charged and as confusing as their last, and the only satisfaction Morgana takes from them is that Arthur is clearly affected, too. His smiles don’t come easy, they look put on, trying too hard to pull a reaction out of Morgana. Trying too hard to say, _‘see? we can do this’._ Bickering lightheartedly as if they’re still teenagers, not two young adults who’ve tried to kill one another, multiple times over now. The fact that he’s  _trying_ so earnestly is beyond aggravating and baffling. Arthur is many things, but patient has never been one of them; it finally shows, and Morgana has never been more grateful to see him scowl and snap for her to be silent after she spends breakfast dictating all of the ways in which she will make him suffer, once she’s free of her shackles. It’s less satisfying when he clenches his fists, grits his teeth, and asks her,  _again,_ if she would like to accompany him that afternoon twenty minutes later.

Gwen acts as a buffer for them more often than not, both helping and hurting the mass of confusion swirling around in Morgana’s brain. Mithian and Mordred flit in and out, one curious, the other pained as they dodge in and out of her way.

Merlin, is never far from sight.

The shackles remain, but otherwise, Morgana is basically free to do as she pleases, as long as she remains confined to the castle walls and the stables. For two days, she refuses to leave her chambers, but no one comes to bring her food, and by the time that she’s angry enough to stomp herself down into the kitchens, she runs into Arthur, beaming and holding out a piece of cake. “Told you,” he laughs.

Morgana slaps it from his hands, snatches a loaf of bread, and stalks back to her chambers.

Arthur comes by to ask for her help on cue the next morning, and her curiosity finally wins out. The rage that she is learning to live with, but doesn’t think she can ever truly contain, abates for the time being; slinks away to a place where it won’t drive her actions, and that’s enough to get her to clench her fists and walk down the halls at the side of a man who has cost her  _everything_. To follow him into the dungeons, knowing full well that it could be a trap, and to release a heavy breath of relief each time that it is not.

The druid girl has enough hatred for Arthur pent up in her small body for the both of them.

Morgana can hear Mordred as they walk into the dungeons the first afternoon. He’s nowhere to be found, but he’s plenty close enough to reach her.

_Please. I’m sorry. But please._

It’s a terrible sight to see, this tiny malnourished little girl pacing the length of a cell and glaring daggers over at them both. Arthur flinches uncomfortably at first, but steadies himself and speaks to her calmly. The druid girl rolls her eyes, unimpressed and bored with his words.

 _Please,_ Mordred says again. Morgana wonders if he is talking to the druid girl too. If she’s capable of hearing him. Arthur never has been, unless that has changed with Mordred’s new alliances, too.

Morgana says nothing and remains still. If Mordred wanted to help her he could, easily, and he hasn’t, so why should she make any move to help him or this child?

“Kara,” Arthur starts. “This is my sister Morgana. The one I told you about.”

Morgana flinches at the description, and the girl picks up on it, her beady little eyes narrowing in on Morgana’s wrists. “You keep your own sister in shackles?” she taunts. “The Great King of Camelot.”

Her sarcasm is refreshing after being cooped up with Arthur and Gwen’s forced amiableness. “Well, if he didn’t, then I would kill him.” Morgana flicks some hair out of her face, and Kara blinks at her, confused.

Arthur sighs, long suffering, and hisses through clenched teeth. “You’re supposed to be  _helping._ ”

“I never agreed to help you,” Morgana reminds him. “I was just curious about the other magical prisoner in the castle.”

“You have magic?” Kara asks, looking hopeful. “Wait…  _Morgana?_  The lady Morgana? The High Priestess of the old religion?” she asks. Morgana quirks her eyebrows at the girl, and she comes alight. “I’ve heard about you. Is it true that you have a dragon? No one’s seen you for years.”

“I’ve been a bit held up.”

_Morgana—_

“You grew up with Mordred?” she asks, ignoring the voice in her head. Kara shrugs, eyes going wary again as she tries to parse what’s going on. “I knew him when he was a boy, once,” Morgana tells her. “He’s very different now,” she adds pointedly. The voice in her head remains silent.

Arthur looks over at her in confusion, but says nothing, waiting to see what she’ll do next.

What she does is simply stare at the child. Arthur is not Uther, and there is a clean bedroll, a wash pan, and thick wool blankets in her cell. But she is still a child, sentenced and waiting to die. It occurs to Morgana only then that, free to come and go from her chambers as she may be now, she is little more than an imprisoned Head of State; someone to be treated with some measure of respect, but not to be granted immunity for all the crimes committed. A novel concept of this world that Arthur is trying to create, against Uther’s image, but never able to stray too far. Not yet.

Possibly not ever.

“He’s betraying his people,” Kara snaps, finally uncomfortable with Morgana’s challenged silence. “He’s a druid, and he bows to  _him,_ ” Kara spits towards Arthur.

It’s nice to know that Arthur may be King now, may have grown into something resembling patience and control, but inside somewhere, he’s still the temperamental little prat who would poke at Morgana underneath the dinner table to try and get a rise out of her. His pride and temper are still a part of him. He straightens and frowns at Kara, his voice tight as he says, “Which is proof that  _I_ can be reasonable and forgive past transgressions. Mordred has saved my life and pledged me his loyalty, he has earned his place here. I would very much like to give you the chance to do the same.”

Kara spits at his feet. Morgana rather feels the same and is smirking when Arthur turns to her for help. He’s had enough, and turns back to Kara, the sincerity in his tone absolutely grating. “Please consider it. If I cannot show proof that you feel remorse, I cannot help you.” He nods for Morgana to follow, and walks up the stairs.

“He’s the king,” Kara says, as Morgana hesitates to follow him straightaway. “He can do whatever he likes.”

Morgana grins at her devilishly. “He won’t be the king forever,” she says, and walks out of the dungeons.

“She’s wrong,” Arthur says, once Morgana has caught up to him. He was listening at the top of the steps. Close enough to hear them both. “As much as people like to pretend otherwise, there  _are_ limits to a king’s power. Committing treason is a death sentence. If I give her a pass, there are consequences later down the line. Do I forgive everyone? No matter their age? Does it make me seem weak in the eyes of other leaders, who would use it to rise up against me? Or do I follow the laws that have been in place for years and condemn a radicalized child to death in order to prove a point for others who might follow in her place? I’ve thought about all of this and more a hundred times in the last few weeks Morgana, believe me, I do not want to kill that girl, but I’m running out of options.”

“And for me? How many of your people are calling out for my blood? How do you justify that?”

He turns round and bores his eyes into hers. “It hasn’t been easy,” he admits, suddenly weary. “That decision has helped the Saxons gain new followers, and cost the lives of some of my people.”

“And is your sentimentality worth it?” she asks, loathing the sincerity to her tone. “All joking about cake aside, you’re smart enough to know that I’m just biding my time until I can get these shackles off and take what’s rightfully mine. You’re holding onto something that is never going to happen.  _Why?_  Either kill me or release me, but let’s just be done with this charade  _brother,_ ” she bites.

“Gwen’s pregnant,” Arthur says. They’re a crack, those words; it’s almost as if a cannon went off in the space between them, and it’s more than enough to make Morgana go silent and take a step back from him. Arthur swallows, running his palm through his golden hair, and Morgana hasn’t seen him look this afraid, this unsure, since Morgause put a spell on this entire castle. Since Arthur thought that he was going to lose their father and everyone that he loved in one fell swoop, and his hands shook as he pressed a sword into hers and begged for her to be safe.

_An heir._

Arthur will have an heir and Morgana’s claims to the throne will be that much harder.  _A nephew, or a niece._ Morgana feels sick. She pictures Kara, pacing angrily in her cell, the weight of her life in Arthur’s hands, and wants to scream at the possibility of some unnamed child with Arthur’s crooked smile and Gwen’s complexion, and that decision put in Morgana’s hands.

“I’m going to be a father Morgana,” he whispers. “You’re going to be an aunt. I’m—” he sighs. “I’m sick of fighting with you.”

“All we’ve ever done is fight,” Morgana snaps.

Arthur gives her a weak smile. “Bickering is different than trying to kill each other. Bickering with you… well, that I miss,” he admits. “Bickering with you always makes me better.  _You_ always used to make me better.”

That he is admitting this is astounding to them both. No one else is in this hall, and as Morgana gapes up at him with narrowed eyes, he gapes back at her with more sincerity than he’s given her in years. He sags with the weight of it, leaning back against the wall.

“Everyone knows that I’m a prat. You always managed to trick me into being better. You grew up learning how to rule same as I. Your instincts always used to be kind, and smart. To help, even at your own detriment. Is that part of you  _truly_ gone?”

“It died when I found out Uther lied to me my whole life. He refused to claim me. He hunted down and  _murdered_  anyone like me, and you are the same.”

“I’m not—”

“You are!” Morgana yells. “Don’t stand there and deny it. You’ve banished magic even more than he had, in the end. You’ve killed over it. You know that it is true so stop lying.”

“I’ve never refused the claim that you’re my sister,” he says firmly. “Not since the moment that I found out. Even though it was from  _you_ , threatening our father’s life, and mad with power with a sorceress by your side. Even though ever since, all you’ve done is try to kill me.”

“And you, me,” she reminds him. Because while Morgana knows a large part of all this has been her doing, it goes both ways, and Arthur is not innocent of all wrong doings.

“I know,” he says. “And for that, I am sorry.”

“I’m not.”

Arthur rubs at his chin, clearly losing patience on his frustrations with her.  _Good._ She doesn’t want to listen to his pleas, she doesn’t want to be anywhere near him; it’s too familiar, too confusing. It’s far too easy, to fall into old patterns and forget exactly what she is here for.

“I think that you’re lying. If not to me, then to yourself,” he says, and Morgana scoffs and pulls further from him, but he follows. “Maybe I  _am_  wrong. Maybe I’m being completely foolish, and this decision will be Camelot’s downfall, and I will have to live with that but — maybe I’m right. Maybe this time, I’m right and you’re wrong for once.”

Morgana swallows thickly, instead of tackling  _that,_ and snaps, “And that sorceress was my  _sister_ ,” hating how her voice cracks when speaking of Morgause.

“And I am your brother. We grew up together Morgana, that woman just swept into your life and you just trusted her. Why not me?”

“Because she was telling me the truth. And because she never thought me weak and sent me off to my chambers  _to rest._  And because she was  _right_.”

“Was she?” he asks. “I don’t mean about magic, or your right to rule, or how Uther should or should not have ruled—but everything else. Her methods. Her violence. Turning us against each other. Was  _that_ right? Because Morgana, I don’t think so. I think she corrupted you. I think magic did. All I’ve ever seen come from it is pain and evil. I think about the girl I used to know, and this version of you, and I don’t know how to fit them into one person. I think you were manipulated into this, and if you wanted, you could come back from it.”

“You’re  _wrong,_ ” she snarls. “Magic has been a part of me since the moment that I was born.”

“Perhaps,” he concedes, not looking happy about it. “But still, if — if Father  _had_ claimed you, if the regulations on magic were pulled back, would you still hate me? Hate Gwen? I don’t understand how you could want us  _dead_  Morgana, because even with everything that you’ve done and said to me in the last four years, I’ve never once wanted you dead and gone. I’ve wanted to shake you maybe,” he tries to joke and it comes out all wrong. Morgana watches him pull his fists into tiny balls at his sides.

“I was in a hole in the ground for the last three years Arthur,” she reminds him. “I didn’t do a thing to you. And, he didn’t claim me,” Morgana hisses. “Never once.”

“I did,” he answers. “I do.”

“You say that, but most of our relationship has consisted of you telling me not to fret, to go  _rest_ and be silent, and let you take care of things. You’ve never take me seriously Arthur, not since we were children, and to pretend otherwise now is insulting,” she snarls, pressing herself against him, the metal on her wrists cool and painful against his chest. “You say that you want that girl back in your life, but all you did for  _years_ was dismiss her. Just because we’re siblings, doesn’t mean you have to pretend that you care about me now. You hate the very thing that makes me,  _me,_ at my very core, and you have been raised to do so since your birth.”

Arthur steps back from her, surprised, and stares.

“You’re right,” he whispers, like a revelation. He blinks down at her and Morgana can see, that perhaps for the first time in years, he’s actually listening to her words. “But Morgana, there is no pretending. The way we’ve been… we  _were_ friends as children, at least,” he says, with a vulnerability to him that Morgana doesn’t think she has ever seen before. “And maybe you’re right, and it was my fault that changed as we grew up. I dismissed you. I…” he laughs, bitter and self-deprecating. “Everyone knows that I was an utter prat as a teenager. Maybe I still am,” he shrugs. “But I don’t want to be,” his face turns steely and determined, familiar in a way that aches to watch. “Maybe we’ve never truly gotten to be siblings before now, but we  _do_ share blood Morgana. And we were raised together, and… we could start over if we wanted. Be a real family.”

It’s worse almost, that  _now_ is finally the time that his face falls and he reaches for her, remorse spilling out of him.  _Now_ he listens.  _Now_ he wants her.  _Now,_ that she absolutely does not want a single bit of him.

“You’re right,” his voice shakes, and he clears his throat. “A lot of this is my fault, and I’m sorry.”

The sincerity to his voice feels like knives dragging across her skin. Everything that she ever wanted from him, once upon a time, gifted five years too late. If she could use magic, he’d be dead right now; she’s shaking, and her chest is heaving as though she is going to either throw up or cry, but she won’t let herself. This is all the power she has, right now—an illusory sense of composure—and she will cling to what's left of it with her last breath.

Arthur reaches for her. “Morgana—”

She shoves past him, shaking all the way back to her chambers, feeling like she is going to burst with magic that cannot find a release.

…

…

Her first thought had been joy, when she heard that Uther was her father and Arthur her brother. It was fleeting, but she cannot deny that she wanted nothing more than for Uther to claim her as a Pendragon, and to stand beside her family and rule as she always should have been allowed. She still wonders sometimes, what would have happened, if Uther had any decency inside of him. If she had been allowed to show him what she could do, to show Arthur. If they saw her talents for magic and felt  _pride,_ felt  _awe,_  instead of disgust and rage.

But that is not what happened, and she doesn’t trust Arthur’s sudden change of heart.

(She wants to, though.)

She  _hates_ it, but his words ring out inside of her head for the next few days, and she is unable to escape the way that her heart clenched at his open and genuine face. She has known him since she was a girl, and she knows what he looks like when he is lying and when he is telling the truth, and he is telling the truth to her, now.

He wants to be better. He wants her here.

She’s never hated him more in all her life.

She can’t trust it, is the problem. Arthur is flighty about things like this, temperamental and prideful and no matter what he says, Morgana doesn’t believe for a second that he will embrace magic and turn to her for help ruling Camelot.

It sure seems like that’s what he’s trying to do, though. There is a knock on her door in the morning and Gwaine, a slight scowl on his face, appears once Morgana moves to open it. “Come on then,” he says. “I guess your opinion is necessary now.”

Morgana follows mostly because of how uncomfortable it makes Gwaine. She’s shocked once she is brought into the Great Hall and given her old seat. Guinevere resides in Arthur’s, and Arthur now sits where Uther sat, presiding over everyone. He has the audacity to smile at her. Morgana ignores him, slouching and kicking up her legs over the seat, in the same position he found her in when she took Camelot from him, four years ago now. She sits, feigning boredom as they go on with the proceedings.

Gwen keeps her chin held high, listening intently to everyone who comes into the room to ask for the King’s favor. Morgana glances at the lowest three buttons on her gown, wonders when a slight swell will develop there, and where they’ll all be by then. Will her hands still be in shackles, expected to hold her niece or nephew and coo politely? Or will she be sharing a cell down in the dungeons beside the druid girl, or dead?

Will there even be a niece or nephew? Does she have it in her to kill them all if given the chance? The part of her that is pure rage screams  _yes,_ but when she looks over at her brother, when he turns to her and asks for her opinion, when he  _listens,_ the rage quells inside of her instead of growing.

Anger is all that she has had, for years now, without it, Morgana doesn’t know what to be anymore. She cannot go back to the girl that she once was, which is the only thing that she knows for certain anymore.

…

…

Gwen reaches for Morgana’s hand after breakfast. “Want to join me for a walk?” she asks, dropping her hand and smoothing down her dress. “It’s lovely out today.”

 _No,_ resides on the tip of her tongue, but it never makes it out of her mouth and Morgana finds herself nodding.

Gwen chats idly, and Morgana strolls beside her half listening as she soaks up the feeling of the sun on her skin. They end up in the gardens, lying in the grass like they haven’t done since they were girls, and Gwen rolls her head over and squints at Morgana through the sun.

“What’s it like?” she asks. “To have magic?”

Morgana starts, squinting back at her.

“Is that… the fire, the nightmares, those feelings that you used to get. Hunches or whatever. Was that all magic?”

“Yes,” Morgana croaks.

“I was always scared for you,” Gwen whispers. “We never knew what was happening. You were miserable and I couldn’t do anything to stop it,” she sighs. “All I’ve ever seen come out of magic is misery. People trying to hurt each other. So, what’s it like? Now. You can control it. Why — why did you come back and want to hurt everyone? What did we do? What did  _I_ do?”

She asks like she genuinely wants the answer. There’s no accusation to her tone, which is surprising. Morgana rolls her head over and looks at her. “You know what Uther did. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you Gwen. He killed your father.”

Gwen bristles beside her, but nods. “I didn’t mean him. I meant  _us._ Arthur, Merlin,  _me._  We were friends. Did you think that we wouldn’t listen?”

“You didn’t,” Morgana says, letting out a huff of frustration.

“So, tell me now,” she asks, not moving to protest Morgana’s words. The one constant, always, has been the fact that Gwen is an excellent listener, and there have never been many who truly have been willing to listen to Morgana at all. Not unless forced to, anyway. Not without cataclysmic efforts on her own part to be heard. If Morgana had confided in her more back then, perhaps… No, Gwen was only a servant then, nothing would have changed.

_Would it?_

Morgana rolls her head over and studies Gwen. Silently, she stares back at Morgana, allowing her gaze to roam, offering up whatever it is that Morgana is searching for. Out of all the people that Morgana might owe apologies to, Gwen has reminded her of it the least since she came back to the castle. Their relationship is also one of very few that hasn’t changed much, despite everything else in their lives that has in the last five years. Gwen waits, silent and patient, and suddenly, Morgana  _aches_ to fix everything between them. To have Gwen back, the way she used to—even with that fucking crown on top of her head.

She rolls her head away until she is squinting up at the clouds, and sucks in a heavy breath.

“Arthur hardly ever listened to me, before. And he feels the same way about magic as Uther did. Which you know very well. And all Merlin has done for years is look at me like I’m some sort of ticking time bomb. I don’t know what I did to him, but he always assumed the worst from me,” she shrugs. “I stopped fighting it.”

Gwen’s lips press into a frown, but she doesn’t make any move to protest Morgana’s words. Doesn’t challenge her view of things.

“And me?” she asks, after a few minutes of silence.

“Your loyalties are to Arthur,” Morgana shrugs. Because truly, other than picking Arthur over Morgana, Gwen had done nothing to her but try to help and be kind until the day that they held swords to each other’s throats.

“They were with you too,” Gwen says softly. “Until they couldn’t be any longer.”

“I know,” Morgana responds, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Gwen’s hand reaches out, then she hesitates, resting it down on the grass between their bodies, palm facing up. “I’d like for us to all be on the same side again,” she says quietly. “Uther is gone. His way of ruling should die with him.”

Morgana swallows and says nothing.

“What does it feel like?” Gwen asks a few moments later, hand still resting in the grass. “Magic,” she clarifies.

“Power,” Morgana says. Which is true, but it is not the whole truth. Gwen seems to understand this, and waits silently for Morgana to continue. She rolls her head away and looks up at the sky, trying to find a way to explain it that will make sense to Gwen.

She slit the throat of a deer that strayed its way into her path, once. After she had escaped the castle, dragging the limp and dying body of her sister on her back. The only hope that she ever could have had to bring Morgause back from Merlin’s attack was to invite the very oldest, very darkest kind of magic inside of her.

Blood must have blood; it’s not something that can be replicated or substituted. There must be a willingness to invite the darkness in, a surety in the choice. Wavering will get you nowhere, might even leave you wrong, after, and won’t help anyone in the end. You must be prepared to grant the darkness the right to every inch of your body. Morgana had known that it would be much worse than the nightmares that had plagued her for years; constantly waking with a start, knowing that somewhere inside of her, something was lurking. Something old and dark, that can never be gotten rid of. Morgana had listened to the horrible wheezing that was coming out of her sister, and had remembered the horrified looks on Arthur and Gwen’s faces. The lack of surprise on Merlin’s. And Uther… the satisfaction she had felt at seeing him in chains. In knowing that  _she_ was the one who put him there. Part of her had felt that the darkness was already seeping inside, whether she wanted to invite it in or not, better not to be alone in it. She’d already lost  _everything,_ she couldn’t lose Morgause, too.

So, she held out her hand, cooed to the deer, and slit its throat the moment that it got close, not allowing herself a moment of hesitation. She held it to her chest and felt the moment that its final breath left its body, thinking over and over,  _it’s just a stupid animal_ , while tears poured out of her eyes. A deer for her sister, it wasn’t even a choice. Its eyes were almost vacant, to begin with, but when it had stared up at her, it wasn't with the terror she had expected, almost as though it had expected this all along, and  _that,_ more than the blood, or her part in the killing, made her the most uncomfortable—something in its gaze felt too familiar.

She tried not to let it bother her much, but sometimes, when she wakes in the middle of the night, the deer’s eyes haunt her.

She lost Morgause in the end, anyway, but not because of the deer, because Morgana wasn’t strong enough. The deer saved her; Morgause wheezed and began breathing, and Morgana could not ever remember hearing a sweeter sound. She’d sobbed with relief until the wheezing had started up again, a few hours later.

She doesn’t have nightmares about the second deer, nor its mother, but it took ages to get the blood out of her skirts, clawing at them with soap while Morgause wheezed in a bed and spoke nonsense. Sometimes she has nightmares about that, too.

Some part of her knew that it wouldn’t be enough, even as Morgause scowled and asked what happened in Camelot. An animal does not equal a human life.

It was easy, to find the children playing. Easier still to get one of them alone. The girl shoved one of the boys into the dirt and stalked off, Morgana didn’t even have to do anything but smile as she walked past. To nod and gently brush some hair out of her eyes, and speak to her as if Morgana cared about her feelings. It was easy, to hold the knife in her hands, to imagine having her sister back—completely. Blood must have blood.

But she couldn’t do it, in the end. The little girl had moved in to hug her and Morgana’s hand had shaken, then she screamed until the girl ran back home. Terrified, and rightly so. Morgana had fallen to the ground and screamed and screamed and screamed, and Morgause never came back. She looked at Morgana and knew, that she wasn’t strong enough to do it.

Her hands shook even harder, when she finally held the blade above her sister and plunged down, but at that point, it was almost a mercy.

Morgana doesn’t know how to articulate any of this to Gwen. How to explain that magic makes her feel like she is wholly  _her_  more than anything else ever has, but she has also never been more afraid of anything in her entire life. On her worst days, she thinks perhaps Uther and Arthur were right. That maybe, magic is the root cause of all her problems, and has twisted and bent her into the woman that she is today. That maybe, it cannot be used for good. Maybe, it can only corrupt.

Most of the time, she thinks that is absolute bullshit. Something inside of her had been screaming for years, and no one ever heard. They said that she just needed more rest, to be quiet and not worry. That she was imagining things. The moment that Morgana knew that it was magic, the moment that she finally wielded it for herself, it was like someone had  _finally_ listened to her. Like the world had slotted into a place that made sense.

That cannot be evil.

Swords are not condemned, because they possess the power to kill a man. They also possess the power to defend. Magic is like that; it depends on how you wield it. It depends on what you’re asking for.

It’s power, the user decides what they chose to do with that.

Morgana opens her mouth, and tries her best to explain, and Gwen listens carefully the whole time. She flinches, when Morgana talks about the deer, about Morgause, about being scared and thinking that she was going crazy. Most of all, when Morgana mentions the girl, with nothing more than a whisper. Gwen listens and does not interrupt, no matter how many times Morgana has to stop and start again.

She’s silent, once Morgana is finished. Her eyes boring into Morgana uncomfortably as she keeps her gaze directly up to the clouds, afraid of what she’ll find in them.

Gwen’s hand moves from the space between them, and clings to Morgana. “I wish it had been different,” she finally says. “I wish I could have helped.”  

Morgana shrugs, her voice no longer seeming to be working.

Gwen’s fingers lightly trail up and down Morgana’s arm, landing on the shackles hesitantly.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you Morgana,” she says, carefully lacing their fingers together. “But I don’t entirely forgive you yet.”

“I never asked for your forgiveness,” Morgana spits out, but she doesn’t move away from Gwen’s shaky half-embrace.

“No,” Gwen hums. “Nor have I given it. But I am glad — to understand more of  _why_. To know that I  _can_ forgive you. Eventually.” Her fingers slide out of Morgana’s, resting back on her belly. “Soon perhaps,” she adds, with a thoughtful hum.

…

…

They take her shackles off.

Morgana sits in a chair in the middle of the Great Hall and gapes over at Arthur. She hears Merlin’s gasp and fury string of protests, watches Gwen’s calm smile, and thinks:  _finally._

Arthur, of course, is the one who does it; propping one knee up onto her chair for leverage and never taking his eyes off of her own for a second. A spark from the break in the metal shoots out between them both, causing him to jerk back and all the knights to draw their weapons. Morgana just stares down at her hands dumbly.

They’ve dropped down to her lap of their own accord, unused to the lack of weight. Her muscles feel weak, but she can reach for the hum of her magic that’s singing inside of her body again, so she closes her eyes and smiles.

When she opens them again, Arthur’s wary, hopeful ones look back at her. Morgana smirks and with the flick of her fingers, knocks him back into his chair. Every knight jumps forward with their swords pointed at her throat. Merlin puts himself between Morgana and Arthur, and Gwen just watches, silent, her spine straight, anxiety wafting off of her. So, it was her idea, then. Morgana can see that now.

She convinced Arthur that it was time, and desperately doesn’t want to be wrong—but she doesn’t want to know Morgana that.

She can see it anyway. Morgana has known Gwen since she was twelve years old. She knew what each tilt of the head, lift of the eyebrow, and twitch of her mouth meant, once upon a time. It’s not so different now.

Everyone hovers, waiting for Arthur’s command, for Morgana’s reaction. She could knock every single one of them through the stone walls with a twitch of her fingers and be done with it. Camelot and the crown, hers once again.

Arthur laughs, trying to cover up nerves, twisting around until he’s comfortable in his chair again. Settled, from Morgana’s little push, but it’s forced, and no one else in the room relaxes. Not even him. Especially not him. Morgana can see it in the set of his shoulders; he’s faking. He  _wants_ to trust her, but he doesn’t. Not with magic. He doesn’t trust  _magic_ at all.

She could choke the life out of him right now if she wished. Lock Gwen up in her chambers until the baby is born and do the same to her afterward. Kill Merlin where he stands. Snuff out everyone who has ever scorned her one by one until all she has left are loyal subjects. Ruled by their fear.  _Ruled like they were under Uther._

Like father, like daughter.

It’s that thought, combined with all of Arthur’s promises, Gwen’s smiles, that gives her pause. She clenches her fists together. The magic nips at her, grumpily, like a puppy who doesn’t like being ignored. The thought of forcing them all to bend to her will no longer makes her feel powerful; it makes her stomach revolt. She keeps her head high and stares straight forward, refusing to show them any sort of weakness, then she reaches across Merlin, plucks a grape from Arthur’s plate calmly, and smiles.

“Took you long enough, dear brother.”

His shoulders relax, but not all the way.

It’s a start.

…

…

When she was ten, right after Gorlois died, Morgana picked up a goblet from the dinner table and threw it at Arthur’s head. He’d said something crude and without thought—an arrogant prat even before puberty hit. For months after her father’s death, every little thing set Morgana on edge. Where previously, spending time in the castle brought almost nothing but joy to Morgana, now, all she could see was the absence of her father’s presence. Anger was much easier to feel than grief, and she reveled in it, trying to press her grief down, down, down. Somewhere that it couldn’t touch her.

She had worried that Uther would lock her up in the dungeons the minute the goblet collided with Arthur’s head; a girl cannot attack the prince, even if she is the king’s new ward. Even if her father has just died. It was the most brazen she’d ever been in front of Uther, and she panicked, waiting to see what would happen without her father there to protect her any longer. Instead of sending her to the dungeons, Uther had looked between the two of them, (Arthur rubbing exaggeratedly at the top his head, glaring daggers at Morgana) almost fondly, and laughed with surprise.  _Well,_ he’d said,  _it’s nice to have someone who will keep him on his toes back in the castle again._

Arthur didn’t speak to her for days afterwards; the longest stretch they’d ever gone. Meals were spent with him glaring at her until she dared to look over and meet his eye. Then he would stomp off in a fit, taking the last biscuit, the last apple, the last bit of cake along with him. When he finally deigned himself to enter her chambers again—nearly a full week later—she was prepared for him to tell her that she was about to be banished from Camelot; sent out to learn on her own to defend herself from bandits, live among peasants, and avoid run-ins with druids who live in the woods for the rest of her life. Instead, he surprised her by asking if she would like to come out and train with him.  _Everyone else is afraid to be around me,_  he mumbled.  _They don’t want to get thrown in the stocks for something as small as accidentally giving the prince a scratch. I thought maybe you were a bit too, before. But…_  he shrugged.

Morgana wasn’t afraid to scratch him at all, and she primly told him so as she jumped off her bed.  _You’ll have to give me some of your breeches. Like when we used to climb trees._ She tugged at her skirts, pulling them over her head until she was in just her underclothes. They were both still young enough not to be embarrassed. _It won’t be a fair fight if I can’t kick as high as you._ Arthur had smiled at her and ran off to find her some clean clothes while she tied her hair back impatiently. They’d had to sneak a dagger to poke an extra hole into one of his belts in order to make them stay up. It was the first time that Morgana noticed that he was starting to fill out, no longer the scrawny little boy she played with whenever her father took them to stay in the castle.

The two of them practiced together outside every morning with a pair of wooden swords, rain or shine. Arthur was good, very good, but Morgana was faster than him. Her steps quicker, she could slip in and out of his grasp with a laugh, giving him cuts and bruises aplenty, satisfied every time she walked past the empty stocks. Arthur had panicked the first time that he drew blood from her—his chainmail cuffing her face as he tried to dodge out of her way—but Morgana had only wiped at her lip, drawn her stick, and grinned at him. Arthur hollered out a war cry and came at her again. 

One morning, she managed to knock Arthur to the ground. It was mostly luck; his foot in the air at exactly the right moment, unbalanced. Her eyes narrowed onto it like she could feel the change in the air, and then he was on the ground, and she stood above him with her blade to his throat. It couldn’t draw any blood, of course, none of the soldiers would give them real weapons, no matter how many times they asked, but it made the same promise and he blinked up at her in surprise.

 _You killed me,_  he declared, half scowling, half grinning. Shocked, and proud all at once. 

 _You wish_ , she hissed, grinning at him before sticking out her tongue. But she knew that she had won, and so did he. 

And then he’d laughed, bright and loud. Morgana stuck out her hand and hauled him up. Their hands stayed clasped together for a moment, sweaty and dirty from practice. Arthur had a smudge of dirt on his face, and there were sticks in his hair. Morgana reached over to brush them out as he laughed, and when she looked up, Uther was watching them.

She’d frozen, jerking her hands out of his hair and pressing them down at her sides, fearful of what he’d say to see her like this—beating the prince in a pair of stolen breeches—as unladylike as she could get. Arthur responded similarly, his smile dropping, spine straight, chest out. Morgana could feel the fear and shame wafting from him, and part of her was angry at Uther for it, somewhere underneath her own fear. Her cheeks went hot in spite of the chilled late autumn air.

Except that Uther didn't seem angry; his face was nothing like Morgana had seen coming from him before. This wasn’t the famed King Uther Pendragon of Camelot: regally walking down the corridors of the castle, or upon his throne in the Great Hall, off doing whatever other boring things that kings did when children weren’t around. There was something soft to him, when he approached the two of them with a strange smile on his face.  _My boy,_  he clapped Arthur on the shoulder,  _it seems that you may have finally met your match._  Arthur's face pinched, just as confused as Morgana, unsure if it was a compliment or not. Uther turned to her then, his voice dropping low, with a smile that was different than the one he had given Arthur, and added,  _well done, Morgana._  One finger brushed against her cheek as his other hand still held onto Arthur—connecting the three of them in almost an embrace—foolishly affectionate, for a king with an audience of soldiers surrounding them, and for a second, Morgana completely forgot that her father was dead.

After that day, she thought that she would grow up to marry Arthur, for quite a long time. The thought was at first repulsive—because the thought of any husband was repulsive—but once she’d gotten a good enough look at other noblemen, the idea of her childhood friend became much more appealing. At least they liked each other. At least Arthur was kind, when he wasn’t being a prat.

She still thought of him as more like a brother, like a friend, than as someone who could be a future husband, and she said so, when at thirteen, Guinevere asked her what she dreamed her wedding would be like one day.

Morgana had shrugged.  _Could be worse, I guess,_ she reached over and tickled Gwen’s side.  _Could be Sir Lionel._ The man who had stumbled through telling Gwen how beautiful she was that morning, causing them both to gag the moment they were out of his sight.

Gwen had made a face, ducking out of Morgana’s reach.  _Ugh, yes, Arthur is definitely better._ She’d looked down at the grounds to where he was training, more often than not. Morgana didn’t join him anymore. It’s cute and tolerated when you’re eleven, less so when the first sight of breasts form on your chest.  _I wonder if he knows how to kiss yet,_ Gwen sighed.

 _Do you?_ Morgana laughed. Gwen had blushed and turned away from her, and Morgana had squealed with delight.  _Do you!? Gwen!_

 _Barely,_ she insisted, her face going pinker by the second.  _A kitchen boy kissed me a few weeks ago._ Morgana had screamed and tackled Gwen into the bed. Half on top of her.  _It was nothing,_ she insisted.  _Like a peck on the cheek, just on the lips. It was over before I even realized what was happening._

 _Well, you can’t have that,_ Morgana insisted.  _If you’re going to kiss someone, then you should mean it._

 _What do you know about it?_  Gwen teased, and then it was Morgana’s turn to go pink. In truth, she knew absolutely nothing. She’d been considering cornering Arthur in the hall and getting it over with.

She rolled off and looked over at Gwen’s blushing face, before scooting closer.  _Show me then,_ she asked, but it sounded like a dare.

Gwen’s eyes flickered from Morgana’s eyes to her lips, hesitant. Morgana just waited, until she saw determination fill Gwen’s face, then she smiled. Gwen leaned forward slowly, the two of them lying side by side on Morgana’s bed, and pressed her lips against Morgana’s. It was chaste, and unsure, and lovely. Over quickly and leaving both girls pink and giggling, until they heard shouting from down below, and jumped up to see what was going on.

Arthur, thirteen and strapping, despite the baby pudge still to his face, beat one of Uther’s best knights.

 _He’ll make a good husband,_ Gwen said, sounding wistful.

Morgana rolled her eyes.  _I suppose._

Just not to her, it seems.

Morgana has been using anger to mask her grief since the moment that Uther denounced himself as her father. Morgause stirred the flames, she knows this—now that there’s enough distance and she is forced to think about it with a clear head. (Though, knowing _,_ and being able to deal with it, are two very different things.) If not for Morgause… well, Morgana doesn’t know what would have happened.

She would have been alone, though. She wouldn’t have any way to control her nightmares, or understand her magic, or have any place to direct the rage inside of her.

She’s always had nightmares, but she didn’t know that they were visions, or have any semblance of control over them whatsoever until a few years ago. With the shackles newly off, it’s overwhelming for a few days; her magic has been shut up inside for so long that it practically explodes out of her now, like a dam breaking. Her head is  _screaming_  and she can barely force herself out of bed.

The visions never make much sense; sometimes her nights are filled with images from worlds that are clearly not her own and yet still somehow feel authentic. Pasts and futures mixed together that feel almost as tangible as her present. Sometimes, when Morgana wakes and looks around her chambers, she finds it difficult to remember which parts belong to the dreams and which do not. Her mind has to spend a few haggard breaths playing catch up.

Sometimes in the dreams, she grows up as Arthur’s true sister. Uther’s daughter, known to the entire kingdom as the beloved Pendragon princess.

Sometimes, she never lives inside of the castle walls at all.

Morgana has seen scores of different Guineveres in her dreams. Some versions are quiet and meek, as Morgana has never seen her before, and some are ferocious and brave as any knight. Far more familiar, though Gwen hasn’t trained with a sword in the same way that Morgana has. There have been many different Arthurs and Merlins in her visions, too. Mordreds, and Morgauses, and Uthers aplenty. Sometimes, Morgana has a pack of sisters. Sometimes there is a man named Urien, a boy born from her named Ywain. A magical place called Avalon. Sometimes she knows her mother, sometimes she does not. In some of these worlds she learns magic from Merlin—of all people—and in some, she teaches him, and they work side by side for hundreds and hundreds of years. The two of them left alive and well, long after everyone else they know have died.

Morgana has no idea what to make of any of it. 

There are only ever two constants throughout the innumerable worlds that fill her visions: Arthur is always a great king, beloved and revered throughout the lands—mythic, almost—a legend; and regardless the visions in which they begin as such, Morgana and Gwen never remain friends for long. 

It makes sense, when she sits alone in the dark, counting her breaths and slowly coming back to herself. To this reality. This world. It makes sense, because Morgana is evil and Gwen is good—of that much at least, she is sure. In this reality, and in all the other ones that occasionally rattle around inside her skull, Morgana is a decaying vestige of old magic, while Gwen stands behind—forever behind, as a woman—Arthur’s pasteurized patriarchal new world order. Sometimes in these visions, she and Gwen never even meet at all, let alone become something resembling friends.

Morgana hates those visions.

She lies very still in her bed and breathes until she can feel the scratch of the sheets underneath her skin. The cool breeze coming in from her window. Aithusa, stirring in his stables. She breathes until she is sure of where she is again, in her chambers, in Camelot.

Here, what is true is that Arthur is her brother, Gwen is (was) her friend, and her father is dead—at her own hand—or, as good as.

She swallows thickly and lights a candle without moving, sleep is not going to come back to her tonight, not for a while yet. Morgana runs her fingers over her lips, remembering the shaky, determined way that Gwen pressed her own against them, so many years ago and laughs. To think that she once thought her destiny was to marry Arthur, to be a quiet, delicate queen with Gwen at her side and Arthur before them. It’s laughable now, but she can’t stop thinking about Gwen’s lips. Arthur is the one who kisses them now, and has been for some time. Morgana thought she was angry that Gwen fell in love and took her crown, but perhaps, she was angry that Gwen fell in love with the wrong Pendragon sibling.

Not that it matters, now. Her visions have shown her hundreds of possibilities throughout the years, Morgana happy and in love has never been one of the outcomes. What Arthur and Gwen are offering is never in the cards that Morgana can see. The three of them are tangled together in destiny, but they’re never happy. Never for long. How could they have gone anywhere else, the way destiny swept them along? They couldn't have escaped it, even if they'd wanted to try. It couldn't have ended any other way. Waves hit the shore eventually, always, even when they're big and powerful and inevitable. The only difference is, they just — hit harder.

Though, the worlds that Morgana oft sees are not this one. Perhaps here, destiny can go and fuck itself.

...

…

Merlin won’t stop following her around.

At each turn of the hall, he’s there with a righteous, glaring look to his face, hands always ready to be thrown up in defense of himself. Morgana remembers the worlds where he teaches her how to wield her magic, where they’re partners and friends. She remembers how quickly he jumped to help her with Mordred, the way that he used to listen to her shaky confessions about her fears like no one else, the way he used to smile at her, with something almost like understanding.

She remembers the feeling of her throat closing up, and the quick-flash of panic when she realized what was happening—who did it.

Morgana’s eyes flash gold, she flicks out her fingers and sends Merlin sliding onto the floor. Arthur looks up from his breakfast in surprise, and Gwen frowns at her.

“It was a joke, dear,” she finally just says. It comes out like a sigh; like the three of them somehow scored a point, as opposed to the truth, which is that Morgana is tired of trying to win altogether.

She decides that making Merlin look like an utter prat will be fun, for a while. She trips knights when she feels like it, flinging swords out of hands and sporting their chainmail with mud whenever they make her angry. When Arthur will not  _shut up_ about a group of druids—and has been agonizing even Gwen for over an hour—Morgana turns him into a toad, to the utter horror and delight of everyone in the castle.

Gwen and Merlin both laugh, before turning to scold her, and Morgana refuses to turn him back for a solid hour, smirking horribly when he sputters back into himself, face beet red and fuming.

“ _Seriously!?”_ he howls, grabbing a tapestry off the walls to cover himself while Merlin snickers.

“Did you not enjoy being a toad?” Morgana asks him, mockingly.

“Morgana,” Gwen chastises, but she’s desperately trying to cover up a laugh, and Mithian is wheezing beside her.

Arthur lets out something that sounds suspiciously like a croak, and storms off in a huff, hollering for Merlin to find him some clothes.

…

…

The druid girl is let out of the dungeons on Morgana’s insistence.

“If you were serious, then  _prove it,_ ” Morgana snaps at Arthur, two days after the shackles come off. “She doesn’t even have magic of her own.”

“She can learn, though,” Mordred says, quiet. “She possesses the ability. She just hasn’t been taught yet.”

“I can teach her,” Morgana offers and Arthur and Merlin both go stiff at the same time. “Were you serious or not?” Morgana asks, a dare. Just like when they were children, Arthur’s eyes go hard and he grits his teeth.

“Fine. She’ll be your responsibility then. And she only gets one chance,” he warns. “It’s treason to try and kill a king, child or not, I cannot forgive a second attempt.”

Morgana breathes out heavily. “I know.”

…

…

Kara is scrawny, feral and wild. Mordred comes with Morgana this time, smiling down at her and receiving nothing but betrayal and hatred back from her. She spits at the crest displayed on his chest and Morgana grabs hold of her arm.

“That’s my crest too little one,” she warns.

“Your brother freed you then,” she sneers, looking down at Morgana’s hands.

“And you, so it seems.”

“So what.”

“So,” Morgana releases her and turns to walk back up the steps, calling over her shoulder, “would you like to learn magic, or not?” She catches the shocked look that Kara shoots Mordred out of the corner of her eye, and smiles.

Kara follows along, but warily.

She’s just as quick to anger as Morgana, but has none of her natural talents for magic. She rages and spits and eats with her hands. Getting her to sit properly in her chair like a lady is a lost cause, and Morgana gives up and lets her sit however she wishes after rolling her eyes once. She remembers being Kara’s age and learning to call the castle home, all eyes on the king’s new ward, the way she itched underneath their gazes, afraid to do something wrong, afraid to show how angry she was. How lonely.

Kara can do whatever she likes, as far as Morgana is concerned. Except try to kill Arthur.

Morgana plucks knives out of her tiny fists, freezes her in action when she gets hold of larger, blunter objects, and once, has to spill out poison onto her dress instead of into Arthur’s cup. She never scolds her for it, though, despite Arthur and Merlin’s impatient looks.

“Morgana, she can’t—”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, cutting Arthur off.

“She’s still trying to kill me,” he huffs. “What if she turns her attention on Gwen? Or the baby?”

Morgana’s eyes narrow. “Don’t worry about it,” she repeats, and flicks her arm, freezing Kara in place where she is about to throw a goblet at Arthur’s head. Kara grumbles angrily while Arthur points at her, incredulous. “If I recall correctly, when  _I_ threw a goblet at your head, it cemented us as friends.”

Kara, Arthur, and Merlin all turn and stare at her. Gwen, from across the table, hides a smile behind her spoon. It takes a moment, but Arthur bursts out laughing, and it’s so familiar, and so warm, that Morgana can’t help the bit of a smile that creeps onto her face in response.

Merlin and Kara wear matching glowers for the rest of the afternoon.

…

…

Kara tries to escape on her third night of freedom, and Morgana is frankly surprised that it took her this long.

“That’s my cloak,” she drawls, stepping out of the shadows and startling the girl. “It’s far too big for you. You’ll trip before you even make it to the Great Hall and give yourself away.”

Kara scowls up at her, and Morgana wonders if she still looks this childish when she fights with Arthur. “I’m leaving,” she snaps, bracing herself for whatever she thinks Morgana is about to do to stop her.

“Alright,” Morgana shrugs. “But you’re going to trip on that cloak. Would you like a smaller one?”

“I — you’re not going to stop me?” she asks, wary.

“Why would I?” Morgana waves her hand, altering the cloak so that Kara is no longer swimming in it, and it’s a less conspicuous color.

“Because… you’re…” Kara frowns, confusion and distrust in her stance. “You’re on your brother’s side now. Aren’t you?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Morgana admits. “But regardless of whatever  _I_ do, you can do what you like. Apart from try to kill him—because you won’t succeed—and then you’ll only get yourself hung for treason.”

“What do you care?”

Morgana looks down at her, face softening just a bit as she shrugs a single shoulder. “You remind me of someone,” she says. “And you don’t deserve it. Your anger is justified. You shouldn’t be punished for it.”

Kara stalls, blinking up at Morgana. “You’re different than Mordred said,” she says, finally.

“How so?”

“I don’t know,” she looks Morgana up and down. “Just different. Are you really not going to stop me?”

“I’m not. I am going to ask if you know where you’re going, because if not, it might be better to wait until morning.”

Kara shows the first sign of fear since Morgana has laid eyes on her. Finally looking like a girl her age, alone and angry and terrified. “So you can go tell the guards and they try and stop me then?” she sneers.

“No, so I can pack you some breakfast and steal you a horse.”

“Really?”

“If you like.”

“I… alright,” Kara swallows, sticking out her chin and trying to look older. “Morning then.”

“Alright,” Morgana smiles, and Kara follows her back into her chambers, sleeping soundly the moment that her head hits the pillow.

Morning comes, and they walk down to breakfast together. When Morgana asks if she’d like to take some extra apples along on her journey, citing it will surely be a long one, and having something to offer to bandits, or fellow travelers is always a good idea in case you get into a tight spot, Kara’s face goes a bit white. She shakes it off, looking up at Morgana and saying, quietly. “Well, maybe… you should teach me some magic first? Or how to wield a sword properly? So I can defend myself before I leave?”

Morgana shrugs and hides her smirk. “I could. It would take more than one afternoon though.”

Kara looks warily out the kitchen doors. “I guess I’m not in such a hurry,” she decides.

“Plenty of time,” Morgana agrees.

Kara is still there a week later, and the week after that, she’s following Morgana around like a duckling and scowling whenever Arthur looks in her direction, but she stops trying to steal knives to stick into him.

…

…

Gwen ceases vomiting at the drop of a hat, and the swell to her belly becomes obvious. The glaring presence of the heir to come making itself known in more ways than one. She becomes affectionate with everyone in sight, hugging without thought, and reaching out for hands, brushing her fingers through hair at every opportunity. Already an affectionate person, the pregnancy seems to make her increasingly tactile, and Morgana still jerks in surprise each time Gwen reaches for her.

She has visions that begin to differ from all the others that have filled her head over the years: Gwen, flushed and glistening, spread out above or below her, and Morgana jerks awake with the feeling of her lips still on her skin.

She watches the way that Arthur’s eyes go something like fond as he rolls his eyes at Merlin, the teasing smirk to Merlin’s mouth in response, and sees them, always by each other’s side in nearly every vision of possibilities to come.

She vehemently ignores both thoughts, teaches Kara lessons in the afternoons, spends her mornings with Aithusa, and her nights, frustrated and alone with visions in her head that won’t go away, no matter how hard she tries to will them to.

It doesn’t help that Gwen seems to have almost completely given Morgana her trust again, or that more often than not, Arthur looks to her after a meeting with his council before hesitating. It doesn’t help that Kara stops trying to hoard knives and starts looking at Morgana like she hangs the moon up each night, constantly underfoot and full of probing questions. It doesn’t help that Mordred’s smiles go wider and come easier, every time that he watches the pair of them together, every time that he catches her smirking and bickering with Arthur without a hint of malice behind it.

Most of all, Merlin and Gaius’s steady distrust makes each smile, each hug, each moment that feels familiar and solid, fall apart all over again.

Morgana is full to brimming with frustration and jealousy and nowhere to put it until one day Mithian catches her eye and blushes. She’s been hovering on the outskirts of everything since Morgana arrived back at the castle, watchful and slightly wary, but mostly curious, with no past to reconcile or apologies to be made between the two of them.

It’s not hard, to catch each other’s eyes in the halls, to brush fingers lightly against arms and raise eyebrows in a question, a challenge. Because nearly everything has been some sort of challenge for Morgana in the last five years, and Mithian holds no ill will towards her, and  _doesn’t matter,_ in the long run. Not if Morgana doesn’t want her to. There’s something refreshing about that. It’s a relief to spend time with someone without any expectations. Without having to worry how her words or actions might come across in the long run. Without second guessing everything that she does.

Mithian slips into Morgana’s chambers easily enough, smiles and pushes her back against the bed like she knows more of what she’s doing than Morgana does. So, Morgana lets her. It’s nice not to fight and posture and just, let go, for  _once._

They don’t talk, more often than not. A silent understanding is made, and Morgana doesn’t have to think about Gwen, or Arthur, or Merlin for a few hours. She doesn’t have to worry about waking with nightmares or promises of future things to come. Mithian kisses, sometimes bites, just a little, and leaves Morgana boneless and spent and she starts sleeping soundly through the nights.

She still dreams of Gwen, though; there appears to be nothing that she can do about it, no matter how hard she tries. Mithian gives her knowing looks when the three of them walk together in the gardens, Kara running up ahead and hollering something at a knight, and hours later, Morgana fucks her until she can’t smirk anymore even if she wanted to.

She’s always been something of a quick learner.

Mithian smirks at her again over breakfast anyway, when Gwen reaches over and wraps her arms around Morgana’s neck—perfectly innocent—but she jerks at the contact, spilling her goblet of tea onto the table. Morgana narrows her eyes and sends a sharp quick tingle to Mithian’s ankle, quirking her eyebrows when she yelps and tries to pretend that she’s somehow managed to stab her toe on nothing when looks over and Gwen asks her what’s wrong.

It’s a lovely distraction, but that’s all it is, a distraction. Because less than a month later, Mithian’s father sends his guards to come and collect her, stating that her kingdom is finally stable once more with the help of Arthur’s army.

She leaves Morgana with a bruising kiss, and says, “Don’t kill everyone after I’ve gone.” Then her face goes soft and kind, something that they both detest, just a bit. And she adds, “Try to let yourself be happy Morgana. I don’t know who told you it had to be otherwise, but you didn’t deserve it.”

…

…

The year that Morgana spent with Morgause, went by much faster than she ever would have imagined.

She woke in pain, gasping for air the same way that she had been when she was still in the castle, but Morgause was there, using magic and calming her down, and assuring her that she was alright now.

Morgana still isn’t sure to this day what she had done to make that be so, Morgause never told her.

She was prickly with what she would and would not show Morgana how to do. It took ages of coaxing sometimes to convince her to teach a certain spell, while other days were spent going over the same thing again, and again, and again, until Morgana was left exhausted and crying, begging Morgause to allow her a break.

She learned more on her own, in the year after they left the castle for the second time, but it would have been much harder without Morgause’s instructions. Without someone to help teach her. Without direction.

Though as it turns out, there was someone who could have helped her all along.

Merlin follows her around nearly as much as Kara does, but his shadow is far less welcome. For weeks, Morgana does nothing but ignore him, but occasionally, she watches. He’s smarter than she’s ever given him credit for, but mostly, he’s lucky. He plays the goofy, innocent, stupid servant easily enough, and people overlook him, but now that Morgana bothers to pay attention, she sees far more than Merlin would like. Far more than she ever could have imagined.

His eyes light up, a flash of gold, his mouth ticks, the mumblings of a spell that Morgana recognizes, and her blood runs cold. As sudden as a submersion in icy waters, Morgana cannot move, for a beat.

 _“You,”_ she gasps, and Merlin whirls around in a panic.

“Morgana—”

She flings him across the room, her hands shaking, and when she screams it comes out ragged and hollow. Like it’s been ripped out of her, painfully.  _“YOU,”_ she walks towards him, feeling like she can’t breathe.

“Morgana,” he pushes himself up to a sitting position. “I’m not—”

“It all makes sense now,” she hisses. “Your arrogance. Why you’re always underfoot, why  _you poisoned me._ ”

“Morgana, I didn’t want to do that—”

“ _Shut up,_ ” she slams him into the wall again. “I thought that I was going crazy. I escaped, and you—” she swallows, feeling tears welling up. He looks up at her, face tinged with guilt, but more than anything, he’s just angry and righteous. It all makes sense in one moment, like the final puzzle piece slotting into place, and at last, the whole picture is in front of you. “Emrys,” she breathes. He flinches back against the wall, then shoves himself back up to face her, the servant has fallen away, and Morgana knows that she is right. The thought is both electrifying and disturbing at once. The face of a sorcerer stares back at her, confidently, every inch of himself held as though he is Morgana’s equal. 

“Yes,” he admits with half a breath. “And I won’t let you hurt Arthur,” he warns, proud, raising himself up to his full height. His grin twists, almost feral, baring his teeth with an almost chilly apathy, and for a moment, Morgana doesn’t recognize him at all. She remembers his lopsided smile, the bright laugh directed her way, so many years ago, now, and matches it up with what she now knows of his ruthlessness. He doesn’t hunch underneath her gaze anymore. The two of them stand there in the hall and stare, sizing each other up with everything finally out in the open. Part of him looks relieved, the rest is all fury and adrenaline. Morgana studies his face and wonders if the cracks in him are only visible to her. She wonders if the only reason that she notices them at all is because she sees nearly the same expression in her mirror every day—still.

Morgana’s nails press deep into her palms. And in that moment, she is no longer afraid of Emrys. Not at all. Her own grin turns feral. This isn’t some unreachable, powerful old man, haunting her dreams. She lifts her hand to Merlin’s face and traces the outline of his jaw. He allows it, but his eyes flash with anger.

“Do you ever stop to consider the people you’ve killed?” she asks, suddenly desperate for the answer. The faces of those dead at her own hand haunt her nightmares, often. Not all of them, but enough to hurt. “Did you ever wonder about what you did to me?”

“I cared about you, Morgana,” he says, voice thick. “And part of me blames myself for what you’ve become. But that doesn’t change the things that you have done. Even if—” he shoves out of her grasp, pacing the room. Turning his back to her without a second thought.  _Still so arrogant._ How had she never seen before?

“—if you’d known, then you might have—”

“Forsaken you?” Morgana prompts. As she advances on him, a sharp raw laugh falls out of her; the two of them circle each other like a pair of wolves, poised to attack at the slightest provocation. “You think I would have abandoned the one person who might have understood what I was going through?” her voice chokes on the words, and Morgana is glad to finally see a flash of agonized guilt on his face. However briefly.

“After Uther found you with the druids you abandoned them. You blamed them to save yourself,” Merlin says, defensive. One word from you to Uther and you could have ruined me,” he laments.

“Ruined you,” Morgana repeats, her voice dull. She flashes back to every interaction that she has ever shared with Merlin. Every time that she almost thought—

He’d  _known._ She mightn’t have been alone. She could have—

“Druids that I didn’t  _know,_ ” she corrects. “I tried to save the ones I did. And even if I had given you up to Uther, you wouldn’t have been executed,” she snaps, still circling around him. She can feel her magic screaming inside of her, all of the rage that has been slowly, slowly, leaving her body over the last few months, pours right back inside in a snap. Filling her up until it’s the only thing that she is, the only thing that she can feel. “With your magic you could have escaped the dungeons. Uther wouldn’t have been able to do a thing to you if you'd used your full power. The worst that would have happened to you would be having to leave Arthur’s side.”

Merlin’s whole body reacts violently to her words; unconsciously, he jerks away from her like he’s been stabbed, and the truth of so many more things slots into place. So many of her visions. So many possible futures. Arthur has no idea. He couldn’t have. If he had known — if — he wouldn’t be so wary, so unsure about Morgana’s abilities these last few months. Two sorcerers, hiding in plain sight under Uther and Arthur’s eyes for years, and they were both none the wiser. A horrible giggle escapes its way from Morgana’s mouth. A beat passes, and she presses her nails deeper into the soft of her palms, drawing blood.

“And you would never leave him would you?” she taunts. “No matter the cost to yourself and those around you. No matter who had to die. Not even your  _friend_.”

He flinches, guilt rising on his face, but he doesn’t deny it, glaring back at her as she presses on.

“You let me be afraid of _myself_. You just sat back and  _watched_ as I went mad, no idea what was happening to me. You left me alone,” her voice breaks again, but she doesn’t care anymore. Let Merlin see exactly what it is that he has done to her. What he has reduced her to. “Do you have any idea how that felt? To be afraid of yourself and your family and what they would do to you. Do you have any idea what you could have eased, with a few simple words? But no, you’d sacrifice the entire world, to stay with Arthur,” she stops circling and presses herself right up against him, snarling directly into his mouth. “Do you think that's what he would have chosen? Do you think he would have been okay with you hurting so many people, hurting me, just to keep you by his side? A _servant?"_

Merlin jerks away from her as though he's been scalded. She follows, unrelenting as Merlin swallows hard, backing away and shaking with anger of his own.

“You’ll sacrifice anyone who stands in his way—in your way. You’ve never even given him the choice have you?” she accuses. “Because he might not end up choosing you at all,” she pushes Merlin into the stone wall, and he flinches at her words, more guilt appearing on his face now, than when he spoke of her death. “You make decisions on his behalf regardless of what he wants,” she laughs, bitter and high. “And you call  _me_ selfish.”

Morgause always thought that it was simple. Uther denied her, so Morgana should hate him. The crown should have been hers, had her father not abandoned her, so she should just take Camelot by force. Arthur was the only thing that stood in her way, so rather than speak to him, he needed to be dead and gone, somewhere Morgana didn’t have to think about him.

It’s not simple at all, and it never was. Simple, would have been turning and running back into Arthur’s arms, pulling a fractured smile onto her face and accepting the scraps that Uther had to give. Remnants of her visions flash through her mind’s eye—everything that she has done in the past five years. She imagines the scale of the blood on her hands, and on Merlin’s. In the chasm between them stands Arthur, none the wiser. Morgana wants to scream.

She thinks over everything that has happened in order to keep Arthur radiant, and golden, and oblivious. All of the ways that she has burnt herself up, all of the things Merlin has done in her brother's name. All of the things that he has done to her.

Gwen’s hand stalls her own.

Merlin flinches at it more than Morgana does. He slides out from her grasp, shaking and worried, now that Gwen’s gaze is directed at him. Morgana just stands there dumbly, all of her energy drained in a blink of an eye, Gwen’s hand firmly grasped around her wrist. Burning.

“How could you?” she asks, a gasp and a snarl all in one, and Morgana is so  _tired._ She doesn’t have it in her anymore, to reach for Gwen. To plead her case. But Gwen is not talking to her, Morgana realizes. She blinks dully as Gwen shakes with her own rage, fingers pressing into Morgana’s wrist so tightly it’s starting to hurt. She seems wholly unaware that she is even touching Morgana at all. She shakes, advancing on Merlin. On her friend. Belly swelling and skin glowing and  _furious._

Merlin flinches back from her, scrambling for an explanation, an excuse. He speaks of a dragon. Of destiny. Of light and dark and things beyond all control. He pleads with Gwen, imploring her to understand and all the while Gwen remains furious and Morgana listens silently. Numb.

 _Her destiny and her doom._ Morgana wants to scream, but there isn’t any energy left inside of her for it to come out.

Gwen silences Merlin with a single word and his shoulders sag with shame. It is impossible to tell what her facial expression means. Nothing good. She seems to finally realize the grip that she has on Morgana’s wrist, and when she uncurls her fingers, it looks painful. The skin around Morgana’s wrist is deep red and Gwen flinches at the sight. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Morgana rubs at it and shrugs, hoping for nonchalance and doubting very much that she finds it.

“Gwen—” Merlin starts.

“No,” she snaps. Drawing herself up regally, she rolls her shoulders and stares at him. “No,” she repeats, much more softly. “I’m… exhausted,” she sighs, and Morgana sees it on her. Merlin does as well. Ever watchful. The entire castle is potently aware of the importance of the child growing inside of Gwen. Merlin’s eyes snap down to her stomach before he can help himself and Gwen’s eyes flash with annoyance.

“Surely now you can understand why—” Merlin tries.

“No,” she repeats again. “Merlin…” their eyes meet. Their friendship has always been different than their relationships with either Morgana or Arthur. The roles of servants and royals stretching into the air between them, and even though Gwen has raised above her station, and Merlin is apparently  _Emrys,_ the two of them understand each other in a way that Morgana and Arthur never will. Not quite. Merlin sighs heavily, his voice scrapping a bit raw when he asks,  _but, Arthur?_ before trailing off. “Both of you,” Gwen says, her voice hard. An order from the Queen of Camelot. A few months ago, that would have galled Morgana, now, she just waits. “Will say nothing. Not now. Not yet.”

Morgana means to argue. She opens her mouth and feels her energy returning as Merlin sags. Like only one of them is capable of possessing it at a time. But one look at Gwen’s face silences her, and she stalks away from them both, feeling raw and shaky even as both of their voices call after her with worry.

Kara skips into her way closer to her chambers, but Morgana dismisses her without a word. Kara, usually so persistent and uncaring about social cues or others’ feelings when she wants something, freezes at the look on Morgana’s face. It must be terribly unfortunate then. Kara scampers away and Morgana slams her door closed.

 _Merlin is Emrys._ She was never alone. He  _made_ her that way. He chose Arthur over her. Just like Gwen. Just like Uther.

She cries, something hollow and yet heavy in the pit of her stomach. No one is there to see, so she laughs too, against her fist, wild and terrible, an animal sound. 


	3. Chapter 3

Everyone in the castle notices the changes between Morgana, Gwen, and Merlin. Arthur, most of all.

He tries to get the information out of all three of them. Morgana knows because she is not his first choice to ask. Nor his second. Though it makes sense, it galls her as she watches him huff about and order Merlin to explain himself. Knowing that Merlin could shut him up with a flick of his hand and instead goes small and silences himself, his eyes boring into Morgana the entire time.

“We’re  _past this!”_  Arthur yells, insistent, glaring between Morgana and Merlin during breakfast.

He’ll ignore whatever is right in front of him, if it keeps the world the way that he wants it. Same as Uther.

(Same as Morgana.)                                            

“Arthur,” Gwen placates, resting a hand on top of his arm. Morgana and Merlin both react the same way, shoulders jerking up to their ears, eyes narrowing at the contact. Their eyes meet and they both glare before turning away. A mirror image, nearly.

Morgana shoves back from her seat and storms off in a huff, while Merlin coils into himself, silent and hard.

Not so similar, then. Morgana spits her rage out at whomever is in her path, Merlin pulls his in to wait. They’re fire and ice.

But inside, they’re nearly the same. Could have been, if—

“What  _is_ it?” Arthur snaps, again. Always. Unrelenting when things aren’t the way that he wants them to be.

“Nothing,” Gwen says, looking only at Morgana, then Merlin, then at the floor. “It’s nothing.”

That won’t last for long.

…

…

Morgana decides that she is going to allow herself to enjoy holding this secret over Merlin’s head. If she isn’t going to kill him—and despite everything, it appears that she isn’t—then it’s the least that she can do.

She  _means_ to kill him. She stalks out of her room in the middle of the night after their fight only to nearly trip over Kara, slumped in a bundle on the floor. Sleeping soundly in front of Morgana’s bedroom door. The girl jerks awake with a start, whirling onto her feet and rubbing at her eyes.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Morgana snaps. “Go sleep in your room.”

Kara squares her shoulders to argue, and then Mordred appears out of thin air, moving to stand beside her. The pair of them look at her, waiting, refusing to move and Morgana rolls her eyes and shoves them both—just a few slippery inches backwards—with her magic as she walks out to the gardens.

She paces until she is exhausted. She means to head off to Merlin’s quarters and end this once and for all, if he didn’t deserve it before, he sure as hell does now, but—

Something stalls her. And it’s not Kara or Mordred. It’s not even Gwen’s sad face. She doesn’t even think that it has anything to do with Arthur.

She’s furious with Merlin. (If she thought that she knew what anger felt like before, this is… it’s similar, but it fills her skin differently. Or maybe  _she_  fills her own skin differently, now.) But when she reaches for that anger, for her magic, the urge isn’t quite there. It’s dulled down. An old thing. Something familiar but fearful, rather than comforting.

Morgana is no longer the girl that was lost in the forest, going mad, and she is no longer the wild witch in the woods, either.

She’s somewhere in between. The last High Priestess of the Old Religion. The sister of Arthur Pendragon. She doesn’t want to change either of those parts of herself, anymore.

Certainly not for Merlin.

It’s a jarring realization, for a few moments. Morgana has to sit down on one of the benches and focus on her breathing lest she hyperventilates. She’s had this realization prickling at the back of her skull for some time now, growing stronger with each day that she spends out of the cuffs, with Arthur, with Gwen, with them all. But there was always some part of her that didn’t quite believe it. That assumed she was simply biding her time, until the moment to strike was right, still.

It’s impossibly strange, to know that she’s not. To know in her bones that she doesn’t  _want_ to anymore.

It’s more satisfying than she would have thought, to keep Merlin alive. Delighting over this secret. Finally, being the one  _in the know._ Arthur is the one left out in the dark and frustrated. Merlin is the one terrified of his secret and his life changing at the mere mention of a few words spilling out of someone else’s lips. Gwen is left to try and appease them both, increasingly growing weary of the secrets between the four of them.

It can’t last for long, Morgana knows, but she sneers and taunts Merlin and delights in the power of it. She has no more urges to kill him, apart from half-hearted things that have even Gwen snapping and rolling her eyes and saying that  _she’ll_ kill Merlin, if he doesn’t go away and give her a moments peace.

Gwen doesn’t watch Morgana, after the first day, worried that something terrible will happen. That Morgana will do something. And it’s that, that finally trips Merlin up. He waits for Morgana to start a fight, at the ready for a solid four days before Morgana watches his shoulders sag with amazement and he drops a full goblet to the floor. Arthur yells, and the knights tease, and Merlin gapes at Morgana.

_He was wrong._

Morgana smirks, and it’s the sweetest bit of revenge that she has ever known. And finally, it costs her nothing.

…

…

“Again,” Morgana orders and Kara huffs, dropping her arms impatiently and glaring up at her. “You’re close,” Morgana tells her, a bit more softly. “But not quite. Try again.”

Kara hesitates. She gets too frustrated too quickly, doesn’t like looking anything less than perfect and strong. Morgana looks away, covering her eyes from the sunlight and giving Kara a moment of privacy to collect herself. She can see Arthur watching them from a few feet away. Increasingly curious about their magic. Morgana’s magic.

Kara lets out a little huff of breath, and holds up her hands. “Okay,” she says, determination all over her face.

“Slowly,” Morgana directs. “Close your eyes and reach for it slowly.”

Kara does as she’s told, and when the candle lights up in front of her, she squeals happily, jumping up and down before spinning around and yelling out. She grabs at Morgana’s skirts. “I did it!” she exclaims, finally looking like a child her age, unrestrained and delighted.

Arthur claps slowly and Morgana and Kara both whip their heads around to look at him.

Morgana watches the wry smile pull out onto half his face, teasing, and proud. He draws a wooden sword from somewhere. “Not bad,” he says, grinning. He tosses the sword without looking away from Kara, and Morgana catches it without thinking. Muscle memory. Arthur pulls two others, holding one out to Kara. “I heard you’ve been having other lessons as well.” He twirls the sword in his hand, turning his smirk on Morgana. “You’ve been using magic to fight for quite a few years. I wonder, have you lost your touch with a sword?” he teases.

Morgana twirls her own sword as easily as Arthur, a smirk of her own playing at her lips. Kara watches them both with curious eyes.

“Are you sure that the king could handle such an embarrassment?” she taunts.

“Are you sure that a high priestess can?” he responds, the first time that title has ever graced his lips that Morgana knows of. The first time it’s ever been placed upon her with something like respect, coming from him.

She grins, and swings her sword at him.

The smile never leaves her face as they fight, and its twin is mirrored by Arthur. Kara steps to the side, her watchful eyes clocking their advances and defenses, learning intently. Morgana sees Gwen, Mordred, and Merlin out of the corner of her eye, and pays them no mind. She never let Arthur win at anything just because he was the prince, she’s certainly not about to let him win just because he’s the king.

She flicks out her hand, and Arthur stumbles, grinning up from the dirt even as he yells, “No magic!” incredulously.

Morgana only shrugs and slices her sword through the air instead, hearing herself laugh with something like manic delight when Arthur manages to knock her off of her feet. They’re both flushed in a few minutes, anticipating each other’s moves from years of training together. Each other’s best opponents, still. The crowd around them slowly grows larger, Arthur’s knights, a few servants, curious to see what the Pendragon siblings will do.

Morgana has never been willing to let him win, but Arthur has never been willing to let her win, either. In the end, Arthur manages to knock her off her feet, the wooden sword at her throat while he smirks, flushed and grinning above her.

Morgana knocks him to the dirt with a flick of her hand, then smirks back at him.

A draw, of sorts. Gwen rolls her eyes and claps for them both, declaring the tie loudly before anyone can try and shout more encouragement to egg them on. Morgana is exhausted and grateful. It appears that she  _is_ a bit rusty with a sword, now that she’s been so reliant on her magic.

But when Arthur holds out his hand to help her up, he’s staring at her with a new sort of reverence. She nearly beat him without magic.

“Still a worthy opponent,” he says, quietly.

Morgana dusts off her skirts, and the fact that she came close enough to nearly beat him in them is not overlooked by either sibling. Morgana locks eyes with him and nods, slow. “So are you,” she says, it sounds almost like an apology. Arthur blinks at her in surprise, then breaks out into a grin. Morgana knows what is going to happen only a second before it does, and she screams accordingly as Arthur bends down and throws her over his shoulder.

He yells out teasingly, and his knights join in his laughter, Morgana screeching at him to put her down now before she turns him into a toad for a solid week. Gwen’s smile is so bright that it hurts to look at, and Mordred and Kara can’t stop laughing. Only Merlin looks furious and hurt.

Morgana sends Arthur onto his ass in retaliation, and turns his water into mud at dinner, once he’s relaxed and forgotten to be wary.

…

…

When she first comes to the castle, first meets Arthur, first picks up a sword, they’re… tentative with each other. Still sizing each other up. Arthur is jealous of the way that Uther dotes on Morgana, and it’s obvious to everyone, even Morgana.

Especially Morgana.

He hates her a little, for a good long while, underneath all other temporary alliances that they form with one another. That remains, probably until the day that Uther dies. Maybe after.

Morgana hates him back. For all that Uther doted on her, Arthur is the child that he claimed. The one that he wanted.

They fight each other for Uther’s attention for years, usually not even realizing it. The first time that they make an alliance against him, they win. Over something petty and small that Morgana can’t even remember now. She can only remember standing beside Arthur, the shock of surprise on both of their faces before they quickly controlled themselves lest Uther saw and changed his mind. Arthur was always a bit better than her at that. Keeping a calm head. Patience. Easing into arguments by interjecting ideas to their father one at a time. Arthur is pigheaded, and stubborn, and rash with nearly everything else in life, but he could remain fairly calm when he wanted to, when it came to dealing with Uther. He had ten years of practice that Morgana was never granted.

She never learned, and that might have been true regardless. She yelled and fought and raged at every indignity, no matter how small. She went into everything as a fight, ready for an opponent, and Uther approached things fairly the same.

It’s clear where she got it from, now. She wonders what Igraine was like, to allow Arthur to come out somewhat unscathed. She wonders what her own mother must have been like, since Morgana wasn’t granted the same.

She wonders if it even matters at all, now. They’re both like Uther in many ways, and they’re both trying not to be. Maybe that’s the only part that matters anymore.

“Morgana?” Arthur asks, frowning as he sees her staring off at nothing. That happens sometimes. Still. Her thoughts can overwhelm her if she’s not paying enough attention.

“What?” she asks, not bothering to turn around.

“What’s going on between you and Merlin?” he asks, again. It’s been days and days now, and Morgana cannot stand to be alone with him. She won’t kill him; she knows that now. But—

“It’s not anything you could understand,” she says, finally turning away from the wall.

Arthur’s frown deepens when she meets his eye. A huff of frustration blowing his hair off his forehead as he starts pacing in front of her. “Morgana, that’s not… I am the King!”

Morgana laughs, and Arthur coils tighter with anger. His pacing grows more frantic.

“I thought that we were past this!” he says, his voice cracking a bit on the words. “I thought...”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Morgana says, quiet.

Arthur blinks and stops pacing, staring down at her. “That wasn’t—”

“Yes it was,” Morgana cuts him off.

Arthur’s face flashes with guilt before he schools his face. “Why are you fighting?” he asks, instead of trying to argue the point further.

 _He has magic,_ is on the tip of her tongue. She swallows the words:  _he could have helped me._  Morgana presses away from the wall and moves closer to Arthur, his face desperate for answers in the same way that Morgana knows her own must have looked, years before. _I mightn’t have been alone._

_Everything might have been different._

Merlin robbed her of years with Arthur and Gwen. Left her alone and confused and  _furious._  If he had just  _said something,_ then Morgause’s way wouldn’t have felt like the only option. A lifeline.

She wants to open her mouth and tell Arthur everything. That his servant is playing pretend. His friend has been lying to him for years. That he tried to kill Morgana. Might, still, if destiny has any say about it after all. She doesn’t know what stalls the words, but they don’t come.

“I miss Morgause,” she admits, instead. Arthur looks just as surprised by the words as Morgana feels. The only reason this tentative relationship has been working is because they tend to both studiously avoid topics like this from their past.

“I—” he stutters, hand running through his hair. Unsure.

“She was hard to love,” Morgana says, her throat feels too thick. Her arms come up and wrap around herself, and she doesn’t meet Arthur’s eye. “She cared more about bringing down Uther than she cared about me.”

Morgana steps away from Arthur’s hands, coming up to try and comfort her. He never knows what to do when women are upset. Men either. Uther never taught him.

“But she did love me,” Morgana says, firmly. “When it felt like no one else did.” Arthur flinches at her words like she’s stabbed him. “I wish I could have had you both,” she admits, so quietly, that she’s not sure if Arthur hears her.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. For all that he’s a pigheaded fool, he tries. He’s earnest. “I’m sorry if I… I’m sorry that I couldn’t understand then. I’m sorry that I still don’t, completely.”

“Uther raised you not to,” Morgana says with a shrug. “Perhaps… I should have given you a chance to try,” she admits. “But… I was terrified. And you’d made your feelings clear on the subject.”

“But it was  _you_ ,” Arthur insists, so strongly that Morgana’s eyes whip up to his. “Morgana, I would have tried.”

He probably would have. He did, eventually. Gods, she was furious when he pulled her out of that well months ago. She wanted her shackles off, and nothing more than to rip his heart from his chest. Claw at him until there was nothing left of Arthur Pendragon. Maybe then the visions in her mind would finally leave her alone.

She looks at his earnest face now, hand hovering to reach out, and she’s suddenly fiercely glad that she didn’t get the chance.

“You did,” she whispers, and reaches for him. He’s there in an instant, wrapping himself around her and holding on tightly. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he says into her temple. “For coming back.”

Gwen finds them like that a few minutes later, and her face is complicated when Morgana looks up and meets her eye. Conflicted, underneath her happiness.

Morgana rather knows how she feels, as she watches Arthur reach out and take Gwen’s hand, kiss her temple, and lead them out of the room.

…

…

In retrospect, perhaps Morgana should have told Arthur everything herself.

Merlin is still on edge around Morgana, still angry, still wary, and Morgana feels the same. She avoids him as much as he follows her around, and Gwen’s knuckles go whiter and whiter as each day passes. Mordred looks upon the three of them warily, and Morgana realizes that he must have known all along that Merlin was Emrys. She avoids him in an angry sulk for a few days on principal before remembering that Mordred was a frightened and hunted child, and it wasn’t his place to comfort Morgana or explain everything back then.

She knocks him on his face while he’s sparring, though. She may not be ready to kill anyone, but she’s still angry.

Mordred smiles at her a bit sheepishly as he pushes himself up to his feet, and then they’re fine again. The two of them have always been able to understand each other, it’s nice to know that hasn’t really changed.

It won’t be so easy, to forgive Merlin.

It won’t be for Arthur either.

Morgana is with Arthur when he finds out. The two of them coming back from sparring with Kara and Mordred, eager to find something for lunch. They find Gwen screaming at Merlin, instead.

“If Morgana has to take responsibility for her actions, then so do you Merlin!” her voice rings out, fierce and furious. Beside her, Arthur stills and Morgana only jolts when Kara knocks into her from behind.

“Gwen—” Merlin pleads.

“No,” they hear her snap. “You had Gaius. You knew what was happening to you. You didn’t grow up with a father who might have killed you if he found out what you were. You could have been a lifeline for her!” she yells. “Instead of reaching out to her you listened to  _a dragon_ who told you that she would be evil without even giving her a chance.”

“I  _did_ —”

“ _You poisoned her,_ ” Gwen hisses, as deadly as Morgana has ever heard from her. Arthur jerks, his face searching Morgana’s in painful confusion, trying to piece together what could possibly be happening.

“Morgana,” he starts. “What…”

Gwen silences him. “You are not responsible for the things Morgana has done,” Gwen says, sounding calmer. “Of course you’re not. Morgana made her choices and she has to live with them, but so do you Merlin. You made your own choices. You could have helped her and you didn’t. And at the very least you could acknowledge that! If you had told her that you have magic too, maybe she wouldn’t have felt so alone. Maybe none of this ever would have happened. You could at least acknowledge your part in it all, rather than sulking about and waiting for her to mess up again.”

Arthur sucks in a ragged breath, and Morgana closes her eyes.

“What is she talking about?” he breathes.

“Arthur—”

He doesn’t wait for her answer, throwing the doors open, he bursts into the room. “What are you talking about?” he demands, to a pale Merlin and a surprised Gwen. Kara and Mordred hover behind Morgana, nervous energy radiating off the both of them. Arthur’s head whips back and forth between Gwen and Merlin, and it would be comical if not for the pained expression on his face. “What are you talking about?” he repeats, his voice ragged.

“Arthur—” Merlin steps towards him and Arthur jerks back. Everyone in the room freezes at the sight. Merlin looks gutted, and this suddenly isn’t as satisfying as Morgana would have thought, even a few hours ago.

Gwen collects herself first. “Arthur—”

“You have  _magic?_ ” Arthur asks, eyes only on Merlin.

“I—” Merlin swallows, and his eyes are red rimmed already. “I wanted to tell you so many times,” he admits. “I wanted—”

Arthur jerks back and Morgana sees his legs shake. She’s the closest, so she reaches out to steady him but he jerks away from her too. “You both have magic,” he breathes, gaping between them. “You—” his face flashes with anger, and Kara jumps in front of Morgana, placing herself between them. It’s utterly ridiculous, but it jolts Arthur out of whatever daze he’d been in, and he gapes while Kara glares up at him for another moment before turning a shaky glance over to Merlin. “You lied,” he accuses. “For years.”

“I—”

“Shut up Merlin,” he snaps, and stalks out of the room.

Merlin looks poised to run after him, and Gwen presses a palm against his chest. “Don’t,” she says, her voice impossibly soft. “Leave him be for a bit.”

“But I’ve got to—”

“I know,” she says. “Just wait.” Her eyes turn on Morgana then, and Morgana swallows thickly. She grabs hold of Kara’s shoulders and drags her until she gets the girl’s hand in her own. Escaping Gwen’s gaze and the tension settling into the air, pulling Kara along with her and knocking into Mordred on accident as she runs.

Bloody fucking cowards about their feelings, the Pendragons.

…

…

Arthur remains furious with everyone for days after. Even Gwen, though she receives the least of his ire. He will not look at Merlin.

Oddly, he seems to stop being cross with Morgana before anyone else, even Gwen. When he catches her eye and motions for her to follow him to court, Morgana frowns at him. “You’ve always been good at listening to the people,” he says, with a huff. “Are you coming or not?”

Morgana does, though it’s a surreal feeling to be sitting up there beside Arthur, in her old seat at the side of the king. Though Arthur is in Uther’s place, and Gwen isn’t sitting in his old seat today.

A few people blanch at the sight of Morgana, still remembering her as an enemy of Camelot, but Arthur looks to her for counsel without blinking, and everyone who leaves the court that day leaves with a bit of a smile on their faces. Some kinder words for the king’s old ward on their lips to pass along to the villagers.

It’s quite a thing, to have Arthur Pendragon’s favor. And, despite the last few years, many people of Camelot still know her as the Lady Morgana, the kind girl whom they adored, even if she’s not quite the same anymore.

She studies Arthur when they’re finally left alone. He slumps into his throne a bit, exhaustion playing at the corner of his eyes.

“Are you ever going to forgive him?” she asks, bluntly.

“Are  _you?_ ” he snaps back.

“No,” she admits, after a long moment of thought. “Probably not.” She shifts in her chair, kicking her legs up in a way that causes Arthur to flinch, and she remembers that this is how she sat in Uther’s throne, when she overtook Camelot for a while. This is how Arthur found her, the last time that he saw her before pulling her out of the well. She doesn’t adjust back to comfort him, slouching further as she speaks. She’s apologized enough for taking up space that is rightfully hers, and she is not going to do it again. Not to him. If Arthur wants them to be proper siblings, then he is going to have to deal with it.

“Then you see—” he starts, but Morgana cuts him off.

“But what he did to me and what he did to you are two very different things Arthur,” she says. “And… what I feel for him and what you feel for him are very different things, as well,” she adds, after a moment. Arthur’s eyes flash dangerously; surprise and confusion, with a mixture of something like shame before he schools his face.

“That is ridicu—”

“I’ve seen many things Arthur,” Morgana says, simply. “Both over the years and in my dreams.”

That gets his full attention. “What?” he turns his body to face her own, though he still leans partly back from her. Still wary of her magic, though it’s been months. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“It’s hard to explain,” Morgana starts.

“Try,” Arthur pleads. “I want… I need to understand.”

“I don’t think Merlin’s magic works exactly the way that mine does,” Morgana admits. “Though, as you know,” she adds hotly, “we’ve never exactly discussed it.”

“Tell me anyway,” he demands, though it comes out tentative, questioning more than demanding.

“Sometimes, it feels like I’m on fire,” she says. “But the flames don’t hurt. Not always. Not since I’ve learnt to control it. I see things before they happen, but not always. And even if they do happen, sometimes it doesn’t go exactly as I’ve seen it. The nightmares that I used to have—still have—they’re not just dreams, usually.”

“What sort of things do you see?” Arthur asks.

“You,” she smiles. “As a great King. And me, as your enemy.”

He jerks forward in his seat, frowning. “No, Morgana—”

“And us like this,” she goes on. “Sometimes we grow up together. Sometimes we don’t. Merlin is always there. And Guinevere,” she sighs. “No matter what I see. No matter what else changes. Our lives. Our clothes. Our country. The four of us are always there. In some sort of combination. Our destinies are entwined,” she says, bitterly. “Whether we like it or not.”

Arthur shoves out of his chair and paces angrily. “That’s bullshit,” he curses. “Our lives are our own.”

“No,” Morgana sighs. “I’m coming to realize that it is the opposite, actually.”

“Well I refuse to believe that.”

Morgana smiles, and pushes herself out of her chair to meet him. “I know.”

“Morgana,” he shoves some of his hair out of his face. “If… I need to… I can’t live my life like that. I can’t be a great king just because  _magic,_ or some prophecy says that I am. I can’t—”

“I know,” Morgana says, and she does, more than anyone, perhaps. “I’ve come to realize that we can’t escape our destinies. But, we’re not beholden to them either. My visions aren’t always what I think they are. We still have choices. If that wasn’t the case… we wouldn’t be here today,” Morgana admits. “I would still be trying to kill you. We’d be trying to kill each other.”

“We chose not to,” Arthur says, almost a whisper.

“I suppose.”

Arthur rolls his eyes at her and Morgana smirks wickedly back at him. She feels thirteen and boney, for a brief moment. Teasing him. It feels like it used to again. Arthur smiles and she knows that it’s the same for him.

“He lied to me,” Arthur says, a beat later.

“I know. He lied to everyone.”

“If he hadn’t—” Arthur’s face pinches, and he resumes pacing again. His shoulders coil up around his ears, like a bit of fabric ready to snap under too much weight. “He’s been playing at being a servant for  _years._  Every time that I—” he presses the heel of his boot into the floor. “And he poisoned you!”  

“And I tortured him,” Morgana says with a shrug. Arthur turns around and gapes at her. “I may hate him. I may never forgive him, but Gwen was right,” she says. “I’m taking responsibility for my own actions. Merlin left me alone and without information that could have…” she swallows thickly and Arthur’s face goes pained. Guilty. “I still made my choices. I’m not letting destiny have those, too.”

Arthur stares at her for a moment, then bursts out laughing. “Gods, we’re a pair,” he says, doubling over as he wheezes. Morgana can’t help but laugh along with him, a tension she hadn’t realized that she was holding slowly seeping out of her.

“Stop being a prat to Gwen,” Morgana chides, once they’ve both calmed down.

“I’m not—” Morgana shoots him a single look and he clams up. “Yes, alright.”

“She’s your wife Arthur,” Morgana says, just a hint of bitterness to her tone. “And she is going to be the mother of your child. Also, she was your friend. Before all of that.”

“And before all of that, she was yours,” he says, quiet.

Morgana sucks in a breath and does not meet her brother’s eyes. “Yes, well…”

She can feel Arthur’s eyes on her. “What happens, in some of these destinies. Between the four of us?”

“A combination of love and betrayal, mostly,” Morgana says, then walks out of the room.   

…

…

Arthur hasn’t left the castle walls in all of the months that Morgana has been back.

She blinks up at him in surprise, when he announces at breakfast that he will be leaving with his knights the next morning. Morgana shares a look with Gwen, then Merlin, before they all turn to look over at Arthur.

“The Saxons are rising up,” he explains. “Too many villagers are suffering.” Morgana tunes him out as he goes on. It’s not that she isn’t sympathetic, it’s not that she doesn’t understand, his arguments are sound, she just…

He’s leaving. Arthur is going into battle with his knights. With Merlin. And he’s leaving Gwen and Morgana to rule in his stead. A few months ago, no one trusted her to be let out of the cuffs that were binding her magic, and now, she’s to be left alone with the queen of Camelot. With Arthur’s soon to be heir. Without a second thought or a threat.

Morgana cannot catch her breath, for just a moment. Arthur doesn’t notice—turning to his knights and giving orders, plotting out a plan of attack—but Gwen and Merlin do. Merlin’s face is a mass of confusion. Arthur still hasn’t forgiven him, but he’s stopped ignoring him, a little. He’s plowing on. Out of sheer necessity perhaps. Or because he doesn’t know how else to react, save banishing Merlin forever. Gwen’s hand reaches over and slips into her own, squeezing before Morgana jerks at the contact and pulls away. Gwen frowns, and Morgana’s face flushes with guilt, but she presses her palms together anyway, feeling like her magic is going to explode out of her.

The rest of the day is a blur as preparations are made. Kara follows Mordred around like a puppy, helping herself into his chainmail and challenging Arthur to a duel at supper before he leaves. Arthur gives her a brilliant smile, this wild little thing who once tried to murder him, and bows gracefully.

“When I return,” he promises, a twinkle in his eye. “I must save my strength for now,” he tells her, seriously. Kara frowns, then considers this, and nods.

“Alright,” she sticks out her hand. “I’ll beat you when you get back.”

Arthur laughs and shakes it. Gwen smiles at them both fondly, and Morgana’s gaze drops to her belly of its own accord. She wonders if this is how Arthur will act as a father. She wonders if Gwen is thinking the same thing. She calls to Kara, suddenly brimming with a jealousy that frightens her, and is only relieved when Kara happily skips over to Morgana’s side. Discarding her stolen chainmail and snuggling up, refusing to go to bed so she can stay and listen to their plans, until she’s half asleep on Morgana’s lap, and Gwen is looking at the pair of  _them_ with that same fond look in her eyes.

Morgana feels like she might explode at any moment. The feeling only amplifies, when she accidentally finds herself alone with Merlin, having finally shuffled Kara off to bed.

He looks just as unsure as Morgana feels, and briefly, they simply stand there and stare at each other. Morgana opens her mouth to speak, but Merlin gets there first.

“I wanted to tell you,” he admits. “I nearly did. More times than I can count. But the dragon said… and I could see it in your eyes. I wanted you to prove me wrong, and you never did.”

“You didn’t exactly give me a proper chance.”

“No,” he slumps. For the first time, looking guilty in a way that assumes responsibility, rather than just feeling bad about the outcome. Morgana wasn’t lying when she told Arthur that she will probably never forgive Merlin, but, she might understand him. That might be enough.

Not yet. But someday perhaps.

“Take care of my brother,” she orders, changing the subject only minimally.

Merlin’s eyes flash angrily. Defensive. Exactly the way she expected, after claiming Arthur. She’s only referred to him as her brother a few times in the last few months, and not usually in a good way.

“I always do,” he says. “That was the whole point Morgana.”

“Yes,” she hums. “I know. Quite a bit more than you, it seems.”

Merlin flinches at her words, then pulls himself up taller. “Morgana, you’d better not—”

“Don’t worry,” she interrupts. “Gwen and the crown will be perfectly safe with me.”

Merlin’s gaze changes. There’s something far too knowing there, and Morgana wants to run from it, but she refuses. Not from Merlin. Never again.

“Yes,” he says, quiet. “I suppose they will.”

Morgana walks away from him with her head held high, her hands shaking at her sides.

…

…

The castle feels too small with Arthur and the knights gone. Her only buffer from Gwen left is Kara and servants, and it becomes glaringly obvious that Morgana has been avoiding Gwen for weeks now that they’re left alone together.

Gwen is not having it any longer. She corners Morgana and Kara in the gardens while they’re practicing magic and eases herself down to watch. Aithusa hovers around them, and Morgana is painfully aware of Gwen’s eyes on her as they work. She falters more than once and Aithusa nips at her.

Gwen’s eyes track the way that Morgana’s hands flinch away when she reaches for them. When she brushes hair out of Morgana’s eyes. When she passes her a bit of bread. Morgana wants to scream at the flash of confusion and hurt in Gwen’s eyes, but there isn’t much that she can do about it. It doesn’t matter what she feels. It doesn’t matter what her visions keep showing her, with alarming frequency. It doesn’t matter what she wants.

Gwen is Arthur’s wife. Morgana’s very presence here is hinged on her brother’s favor, and she is all too aware of how easily that could change.

And she’s not willing to go back. She’s not willing to be at odds with Arthur again. She’s not willing to give up the name Pendragon, a seat by the crown, or the people’s shaky acceptance. It’s hers.

This is the only way that Gwen can ever be hers again too. Her old friend. Her brother’s wife. She’s not going to do anything to fuck that up again. Not after she’s fought her way back for nearly a year.

No matter how much she wants to reach over and kiss Gwen.

“I can’t wait for this baby to be born,” Gwen groans, easing herself down beside Morgana. She reaches her hand out to help her and Gwen rolls her eyes. “I’m not an invalid.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

Kara smacks her wooden sword into a tree, the sound reverberating around them. Gwen laughs as she adjusts herself until she is as comfortable as she is going to get. Morgana has no experience in the matter, but from what she’s gathered via observation, there is no real comfort at seven months pregnant.

“Gaius thinks it will be a boy,” Gwen hums, tilting her head back to let the sun shine on her face.

“Boys can be true heirs,” Morgana says, with only a hint of her old bitterness.

“Girls are still true heirs,” Gwen argues. “If anything happens to Arthur… you’ll take the throne over me.”

“No,” Morgana whips her head over to Gwen in surprise. “I was an enemy to Camelot. The people would never accept me over you. Besides,” she nods towards Gwen’s swollen belly. “They’d have more claim than me.”

“The people loved you long before they hated you,” Gwen says, her voice thoughtful. “And from what I’ve seen, many of them love you again. They trust Arthur. Trust you. In a way that they never did Uther.”

“Gwen—”

“They do,” she insists, though it’s not overly forceful. “You are Uther’s children, and that carries weight. Uther was not a great king, but he was better than many, and the Pendragon name is respected. But the fact that the two of you reconciled, and are changing the laws surrounding magic… it means something, to see the two of you sitting up there together.”

“I’m not the queen Gwen,” Morgana says, and the bitterness is mostly gone. Truly, she never wanted to be the queen. She had wanted to be a Pendragon. She wanted the widespread recognition of that claim throughout the kingdom. She wanted to hurt Uther for not giving it. The power that she craved… she mostly has now, with her magic.

“No,” Gwen hums. “I am. But… you’re who he turns to for counsel more often than not. You always have been.”

“Gwen—”

“You’re the last High Priestess.”

“I am that,” she agrees, and calls out for Kara to be careful as she whacks at the tree again, nearly tumbling over with the force of it. Aithusa frowns at her. As close as dragons ever get to frowning. “Maybe not forever.”

“Kara has a lot to learn before she’s ever granted that title,” Gwen laughs. Morgana’s eyes flash golden, and a burst of wind pushes Kara back upright. She turns and shoots a sheepish look at them before attacking the tree again.

…

…

Arthur and Merlin come back grinning. There’s still an odd tension between the pair of them. A distance, that wasn’t there before. Merlin isn’t a lowly servant, though the four of them continue to pretend that he is—Merlin’s idea as much as Arthur’s.

“Everyone knows about Morgana’s magic,” Arthur says, “it might be useful if my enemies don’t know that I’ve got two sorcerers.”

Morgana and Merlin both glare at being lumped together, but silently agree.

The two of them are nearly back to how they were before, whatever happened in battle doing enough to force them to see how they work well together again, if nothing else. Arthur greets Gwen with a tired relieved smile, embracing her before gaping at how much more she has grown in his three week absence.

Merlin catches Morgana’s eye, there is still distrust there, but he nods at her once he sees that Gwen is perfectly fine. No soldiers are under Morgana’s control. She hasn’t risen up against Arthur in his absence.

Morgana ignores him, and moves to hug her brother, feeling an enormous amount of guilt as his eyes flick back and forth between her and Gwen, as if he can read her thoughts as easily as Mordred.

They prepare a feast. Kara challenges Arthur to a duel and he laughs, tiredly indulging her in front of the whole table, his grin rising as he notices how much she’s improved. Gwaine and Elyan cheer for her loudly, to Arthur’s dismay.

When he holds the wooden sword to her throat, Kara groans and throws her own down to the floor. Arthur laughs and bends down to lift her up, throwing her over his shoulder and spinning her around until he deposits her in Morgana’s lap. A cheeky, “My lady,” and a kiss to the top of her head as he mock bows. “I believe this one belongs to you.”

Morgana looks at him in surprise and Arthur seems to realize exactly what he’s just said a moment too late. Across the table, Gwen holds her breath. Morgana looks down at Kara, laughing and unaffected by his words, or else she didn’t notice them.

Morgana swallows, then twists her face into a teasing smile. “Thank you,” she says, and turns to sip from her goblet. Arthur’s shoulders sag with relief, and his smile grows as he returns to sit beside Gwen. His eyes flicker between her and Merlin, a trace of the guilt Morgana has been feeling flashing onto his face before it disappears, and he smiles brilliantly at his wife.

Morgana focuses on the feeling of Kara’s weight on her lap, the surge of magic in her veins, the taste of the wine on her tongue, and does not look at Guinevere or her brother.

Arthur and Merlin do not come back alone.

It’s not apparent until many hours later, once everyone is well fed and relaxed, with their guards down. The knights are laughing and sharing goblets of wine, relaying how the Saxon army was struck down in their wake. Merlin is rolling his eyes at something that Gwen is whispering to him, and Kara is asleep in a bundle on Gwaine’s lap. Arthur has flopped down into the spot beside Morgana, their shoulders pressing against each other’s comfortably.

A Saxon—spy, assassin, idiot with a death wish, perhaps, Morgana never finds out—jumps up from out of nowhere, a dagger in his hands and a string of curses on his tongue. Everyone is too relaxed, too drunk, too anything, as they reach for their swords and all jump towards Arthur.

They never get there.

Morgana’s eyes flash and her arm is up before she can even think about it, and the man is dead on the floor, Arthur pressed against her back. She’s shaking when he grabs for her, and she nearly kills him too, before she catches herself. Merlin gapes at her, his own hands shaking as he lowers them back to his sides—he hadn’t been fast enough. If Morgana hadn’t been here, Arthur would be dead, and he knows it now.

Everyone does.

The wary, grudging respect that has been built up and awarded to Morgana over the last year is suddenly jolted into place. Solidified in each knight and servant’s eye as they stare at Morgana and her brother, shaking from adrenaline. Merlin and Gwen walk towards them together. When their arms reach out, it’s not clear who they’re reaching for, at first, but Gwen ends up in Arthur’s embrace, and Morgana ends up standing shoulder to shoulder with Merlin, one hand gripping her own tightly for a hot, grateful second before he drops it. The four of them are jolted out of the weird haze by Kara, slipping her way in the middle and grabbing at Morgana’s skirts.

“Who was he?” she asks, unable to take her eyes off of the dead man on the floor.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Morgana says, and turns her head away. Though it does. She catches Arthur’s eye and he nods, clearing his throat and calling for everyone to get some sleep. To search the castle for any accomplices. To bury the dead man. He leads Guinevere off to their chambers, but not before his eyes bore into Morgana and Merlin for a confusing amount of time.

…

…

Merlin corners her three days later.

He hasn’t followed her around waiting for her to slip up in weeks, and he doesn’t start up again now, he just suddenly appears before her as Morgana is walking down the hall to her chambers.

“You saved him,” is all he says in greeting. There’s a hint of awe to his tone, but it comes out sounding more like an apology than anything else. “I wasn’t fast enough,” he adds, looking incredibly guilty. “If you hadn’t been there…” he trails off, a choking noise coming out of him.

“You would have thought of something,” Morgana says, not quite to make him feel better. It’s just a fact. Now that she knows everything, she’s seen the lengths that Merlin has gone to keep Arthur safe. He would have found a way.

“I’m glad that you were there,” he admits, softly. “I’m…  _this_ is what I wanted when I found out that… I wish that I had…” he swallows his frustration, running a palm through his thick dark hair. He shakes his head, but Morgana understands what he’s trying to say. “I’m glad that you’re here now,” he settles on.

There are a million things that Morgana could say to him in response. A few of them press up against the tip of her tongue, but when she opens her mouth, she surprises herself. “So am I,” she says, and before Merlin can say anything else, she continues. “You’re in love with him,” she adds, a quiet statement that shocks them both. Merlin visibly jerks backwards as though she’s shoved him before recovering.

“Yes,” he admits with a ragged gasp that seems to surprise them both even further. “And you’re in love with her,” he adds, locking eyes with Morgana. It’s unmistakable which ‘her’ to whom he is referring and Morgana inhales sharply. She says nothing in response. “But I also love Gwen, and… you also love Arthur,” he adds, careful. “So, it doesn’t matter much, does it?”

“No,” Morgana croaks, she feels her face go flat and distant. “It doesn’t.”

…

…

Morgana panics.

In a matter of minutes, she’s shoved some of her possessions into a bag and she has every mind to stalk down to get Aithusa and leave Camelot forever, rather than deal with every thought that is suddenly racing through her mind, but Arthur finds her.

Kara has sleepwalked again, and Arthur happened upon her on his way to bed. He smiles at the sight of Morgana at first, Kara nodding off again in his arms and then he freezes at the sight of her bags. “You’re leaving,” he says, his eyes on her bags instead of her face.

Kara jerks back to life. “What?” she rubs at her eyes and looks over at Morgana, going stiff in Arthur’s arms. “I’m coming with you,” she demands, pushing at his arms until Arthur releases her. She grabs at Morgana’s skirts, her eyes wild and desperate. “I’m coming,” she pleads, her panic increasing.

Morgana remembers feeling like that. She thinks now that perhaps her magic had been telling her that her father wasn’t long for this world, now. Gorlois had hugged and kissed her and promised to return, and part of Morgana had  _known_ that he never would. She clung to him, crying and desperate not to be left behind. The fact that Kara reminds Morgana of herself now only adds to her own panic, her own desperate need to be  _gone,_ but she feels her head jerk up and down into a nod regardless. Unable to abandon Kara the way that she was ultimately abandoned, regardless of how much that terrifies her in of itself.

“Arthur—” Morgana begins. She hasn’t truly been a prisoner in this castle for months now, but she’s all too aware of how quickly that could change.

Arthur seems to know exactly what she is thinking, and he presses his lips into a thin line and stumbles backwards a bit. “No,” he says, voice thick. “I won’t…” he reaches for her, but stops himself at the way Morgana flinches. “I won’t stop you,” he says, firmly. Morgana’s eyes jerk up to his. “I’ll ask you not to leave,” he adds. “I… you’re my sister. And I love you,” he says. Morgana cannot ever remember those words falling from his lips in relation to her before. She has certainly never said them to him, though she knows now that she feels the same. It’s part of why she’s leaving. Love feels impossible to deal with. Hate was so much easier.

“Arthur—” she steps back, and Kara clings tighter, her eyes wild as they dart back and forth between them.

“I want you to stay,” he says. “I want you to meet your nephew, or niece. I want you to help counsel me. To help people understand magic. I want…” he trails off, like there are too many words and he can’t settle on any of them. “I want you to stay, but I won’t make you.”

“Arthur, I—”

“What happened?” he asks. “Something happened while we were gone. Gwen won’t… she almost can’t bring herself to look me in the eye. And you’re—”

Morgana sucks in a breath and folds into herself. Or, she tries to. Kara wraps her skinny little body around Morgana’s middle, glaring up at her as if she’ll try to vanish into thin air the moment that she lets go. Morgana manages to reach down with one arm and embrace her, and Kara relaxes, if only minimally.

“Arthur,” she tries. “I don’t—”

“Did you see something?” he asks, “a vision?”

“I—”

“Merlin is being weird too!” he nearly yells. “Everyone is — Morgana  _please_ just talk to me.”

“I can’t,” she whispers.

“Why not?”

“Because I love you too,” she says, as firmly as she can manage. “And I don’t want to hurt you again.”

Arthur gapes at her. When he finds his voice again Morgana flinches. “So you’re just going to hurt yourself instead?” there’s a kind of quiet understanding in his eyes, and Morgana wants to claw at him for it.

“Isn’t that what you do?” she demands. His eyes flash and Morgana thinks  _good._ Arguing with Arthur is something that she can deal with. It’s how they best communicate.

“I am the king,” he says forcefully. “That’s my job. It’s not yours.”

“I’m a Pendragon,” she counters. “It seems to be all we’re good at.”

“Bullshit,” Arthur snaps. “We can be better than him.” It’s a plea. He’s floundering just as much as Morgana. Pendragons are built for battle. Both of them are far more comfortable with a sword in their hand then sitting in the throne room, then listening to each other. Arthur has no more idea what to do about any of this than Morgana does. But he’s trying. Through sheer stubborn pride and little else, but he’s trying.

Morgana swallows some of her own pride, her voice no more than a whisper. “Do you love her?”

Arthur shakes his head in confusion. “Who?”

Morgana closes her eyes, and before she can figure out what she is going to say, Kara opens her mouth. “Guinevere,  _obviously._ ”

Morgana stumbles backwards and Kara panics. “I’m sorry!” she yells. “Never mind. Please still let me come!”

“What?” Arthur runs a hand through his hair, overly frustrated and tired now. “I — of course I love her, what does that have to do with anything?”

They’re too loud. Morgana knew this, on some level, but she hadn’t realized how much Arthur had been shouting until Guinevere and Merlin appear behind Arthur in the hall. Morgana nearly bolts at the look on Gwen’s face as she glances down and sees bags in Morgana’s hands. The only time that Morgana can remember ever seeing her look this upset was when her father was executed.

Merlin’s eyes are far too knowing, and Morgana keeps her gaze directed at the floor.

“One of you please talk some sense into her,” Arthur begs.

“I—”

“No,” Gwen says, her voice clear and loud as it cuts through the air. She looks between Merlin, and Arthur, before settling her gaze on Morgana. “This has gone on long enough.”

“What?” Arthur asks, as Morgana and Merlin both freeze in place.

“Don’t Gwen,” Morgana pleads, her voice cracking on Guinevere’s name.

“Don’t  _what?_ ” Arthur yells.

Gwen’s face flashes with pain and she doubles over. Merlin’s hand jumping out to support her. “Actually,” she grits out, “everyone is going to have to hold that thought.”

“Guinevere…” Arthur gapes.

“I think the baby is coming,” she grunts.

Everyone panics.

Arthur starts yelling and pacing, utterly useless. Merlin stays beside Guinevere and grimaces, leaning away and trying not to yelp at the vice grip she appears to have on his forearm. Kara starts jumping up and down and cheering loudly, and Morgana simply stares at Gwen in shock for a solid minute until Gwen catches her eye and glares pointedly.

“Everyone shut up,” Morgana orders. Arthur and Kara grow louder, somehow. “ _Quiet,_ ” Morgana snaps, and steps over to Gwen. “Help me get her to the bed.”

Arthur jumps forward now that he has a task, and he and Merlin carry Gwen to Morgana’s chambers—the closest. Merlin disappears, running off to get Gaius, the only one of them who’s ever been present for the birth of a child before. Arthur starts pacing the length of Morgana’s room again the very minute that Gwen is secure on the bed, muttering unhelpful things about it being a few weeks too early, and Kara crawls up and sits beside Guinevere, eyes wide as she watches her grit her teeth and scream in pain.

“Arthur stop being useless,” Morgana snaps. “Get us some water.”

“What’s  _water_ going to do?” he implores.

“Just  _get it._ ”

He jerks his head into a nod then disappears.

“Kara, stop gawking, that’s not helping anyone,” Morgana orders. “Hold her hand.” Kara jumps to help, rubbing one of Guinevere’s hands and whispering  _‘it’s okay m’lady’_ over and over again.

Morgana hesitates at the foot of her bed, then sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m just… going to check,” she says, looking up and meeting Gwen’s eye. “Alright?”

Gwen nods, gritting her teeth. Morgana gently pushes up her nightgown and gasps. “I think I can see its head!” Gwen lets out a loud groan, gripping at Kara’s hand so tightly that the girl yelps, but holds on. Morgana presses her palms against Gwen’s thighs, trying to give her anything else to focus on. “Hold on,” she says, “I can try to lessen the pain.” She’s not sure if Gwen is even listening to her right now, but Morgana closes her eyes and concentrates, trying to use a small healing spell and hoping for the best.

Gaius bursting into the room moments later with Arthur and Merlin hot on his heels is an immense relief.

“Well done Morgana,” is all he says, before nodding for her to move out of the way. She moves to go stand over beside Merlin, but Gwen’s free hand shoots out and grabs her, holding her tightly in place as another contraction washes over her.

Gwen screams while Gaius mumbles encouragement, and Arthur looks ready to pass out. Within minutes Gwen’s scream goes as loud as it possibly could, and then a different piercing cry fills the room.

“It’s a boy,” Gaius announces with a grin, hurrying to clean him.

Gwen sags back into Morgana’s pillows, her hand never releasing its grip as Gaius lifts the baby up and places him on Gwen’s chest. She curls him up to her face with her other hand, tears in her eyes. Morgana gapes down at them, unable to move until she feels Arthur beside her. She steps to get out of his way, but Gwen’s grip tightens, and Arthur reaches for Morgana at the same time as he reaches towards Gwen. She’s pressed between the two of them. When she looks up, she meets Merlin’s eye, and the elation and relief in his face must be mirrored on her own from the look that he gives her.

Kara shifts beside Gwen, tucking her head down and grimacing at the baby. “What are we going to call him?” she asks. “There’s still some gunk on his face.”

“Kara,” Morgana chides. She looks up at Morgana, admonished until Gwen only laughs.

“I have a few ideas, what do you think Arthur?” she asks.

“I… I don’t…” he can’t take his eyes off the bundle. The hand that’s gripping Morgana’s tightens in a panic and Morgana squeezes back.

“Not Arthur,” she jokes. “We don’t need him inheriting your ego too.”

He laughs, finally looking more like himself, and knocks his shoulder into Morgana’s. “Not Morgan either,” he teases back. “That ego would be even worse.”

Gwen rolls her eyes at the both of them, but looks impossibly fond. “How about Amir?” she asks, glancing down at the squirming little boy. Morgana swallows when Gwen looks back up and catches her eye, the weight of her gaze so loaded it almost hurts.

“Amir Pendragon,” Arthur murmurs, bending down to press his face close. “Hello.”

…

…

Morgana wakes with a heavy weight pressed against her chest. It takes her a few seconds of blinking and coming around to complete wakefulness to realize that it’s Kara. Distrustful that Morgana wasn’t still planning on sneaking out of the castle without her, she’s gone and flopped her entire body weight down on top of Morgana so that she’ll wake at any disturbance.

Her own chambers were a disaster after Amir was born, and Morgana saw the worried look in Kara’s eye. She walked down to the girl’s room without protest or complaint, telling the bleary-eyed servants not to bother cleaning her room until the morning. Apologizing that they had even been woken up at all.

“I don’t mind My Lady,” a young girl yawned, probably only a few years older than Kara. She must have been new to the castle; Morgana could not recall her name.

“Go back to sleep,” she assured her, shuffling her towards the hall. She nodded and yawned again, no longer offering up any protests.

When Morgana had made the mistake of looking back again at Gwen, glowing and electric with exhaustion and love, she’d nearly let out a pained whimper and given everything away. As it was Kara had already been looking at her funny since before Gwen went into labor, and Arthur was still giving her sidelong glances, as if he was just as worried that Morgana still had every intention of packing it up and leaving now that everyone was okay.

Morgana had gritted her teeth and pushed Kara out of the room, calling ‘goodnight’ over her shoulder and saying nothing more to Arthur or Gwen. She’d caught the way Gwen’s face had fallen, though.

Now, she pushes Kara over until she can breathe. Kara groans in protest and curls her body back into Morgana’s side, but doesn’t wake. Morgana waits a few moments, until she is sure that Kara is soundly sleeping, and then eases herself out of the bed with care. She runs her fingers through her unruly hair, reaching to tie some of it back and out of her face. Then she moves towards the basin beside the window, and splashes a bit of cool water on her face before peeling out of the dress that she had fallen asleep in.

By the time she’s changed into a new dress—a dark green thing that she hasn’t worn in years—Kara is still knocked out on the bed. Exhausted from the late night. Morgana is surprised that she is even awake this early, but she slips out and heads off in search of some tea and food.

She’s caught by Arthur, again.

“You’re still here,” he exclaims, walking into the kitchens and freezing at the sight of her. The cook looks up and smiles at him, congratulations on her tongue. Arthur beams, as if he forgot that he has a son now until that very moment. “Thank you Fiona. Might I trouble you for a cup of tea?” he asks, in his most charming voice.

“Your sister’s already asked, it’ll be done in a moment,” Fiona directs him into a chair. She’s been working in the castle for as long as Morgana can remember, one of the only servants who has no qualms whatsoever about ordering the king around. She’s also never been fearful of Morgana’s magic.

Arthur slides down into a seat beside Morgana while a few servants mill about the kitchen, mostly ignoring the both of them. Fiona gives everyone orders and suddenly Morgana and Arthur are left alone, the kettle whistling quietly until Fiona places two mugs in front of them and disappears.

The tea is too hot to drink yet, but Morgana itches for something to do other than look over at Arthur. He looks down at his own mug forlornly, as if wishing the same.

“Gwen and I talked last night, after the baby fell asleep,” he says quietly.

“Oh?” Morgana asks, careful.

“Apparently she’s had quite a bit on her mind for the last few months.”

Morgana has no response to that, so she dares a sip of her tea, regretting it immediately at the sting on her tongue.

“I’ve had… some things on my mind as well,” Arthur plows on, steadfastly keeping his gaze on the bread bowl in front of them.

“Arthur—”

“There was a reason that I was so furious with Merlin, apart from the fact that my friend was lying to me for years. I didn’t… quite realize it, until Gwen and I talked.” He sighs, and pushes some hair out of his face. “I didn’t actually get any sleep. Neither did she.”

It’s then that Morgana notices the significant bags forming underneath his eyes. She pushes his mug closer to him and he laughs before taking a slow and careful sip.

“Is she—”

“She fell asleep just a few minutes before I came down here.”

Morgana sips at her own tea, and tries not to picture the image of Gwen sleeping soundly in their chambers. The two of them sit side by side in silence for a few minutes, sipping their tea intermittently as a few servants scurry in and out of the kitchens. Fiona shuffles past, depositing eggs and fruit in front of them without a word, and then they are left alone again. Both of them dig in to their breakfast, the only sounds echoing in the large kitchens are the scrape of their forks against their plates.

There’s a snakeskin out in the gardens, right in view of the large kitchen window, and once Morgana’s caught sight of it, her eyes go to it again and again as she eats her eggs. Suddenly remembering one of her favorite memories from her childhood: Arthur climbing up a tree and hollering, “Back off! Fucking demons!” after he’d learned a few choice curse words from eavesdropping on Uther’s knights. Swinging his practice sword down wildly in between trying to climb up higher, until Morgana had called out to inform him that snakes could climb, too. She’d tried to fling the snake away with her own sword, and panicked, scrambling up the tree after Arthur, his hands clawing down to haul her up and trying to hit the snake at the same time. Uther found them, and sliced the snake in two with a real sword, laughing at their matching faces of awe and disgust. There is—if Morgana thinks about it—an enormous body of memory colored by fondness, washed of all the anger and loneliness she must have felt as a girl and now just an absent collection of facts and anecdotes—stories about Arthur and Morgana and Uther. Stories that she didn’t even know were about her own family, at the time.

It suddenly hits Morgana that she has no idea what the hell she is doing, and she’s too stubborn to ask Arthur if he does. It's the sort of dilemma that's embarrassing enough when you haven't already been doing it for more than ten months; it's downright shameful now to start the conversation. Besides, she already knows exactly what Arthur’s answers will be.

_We’re being better than our father._

“Morgana?”

She blinks and realizes that maybe she  _did_ ask him, after all. Or maybe Arthur just answered her, anticipating her question. She looks up at him, their plates are empty. Arthur says the phrase it like it’s a joke, but the smile that’s playing at the edges of his mouth goes sour, so Morgana is pretty sure there is a hard truth behind the words.

“Are we, though?” she asks.

“We’re trying,” he settles on. Before Morgana can open her mouth to counter that, Arthur pushes himself up out of his chair. He grabs Morgana’s empty plate and mug as he goes, dropping the plate into the large sink along with his own, and moving to refill their mugs. She hasn’t seen him do anything that domestic in years. Morgana watches his hands stir in sugar and a bit of milk and breathes out slowly through her nose.

Usually, it hurts the most at dusk, when the sky is orange and pink and purple, a wash of bold colors bleeding into each other. Morgana looks at that deep, bruised pink and thinks about the skin on Morgause's eyelids, the delicate red of it with thin blue veins, growing darker as the magic overtook her body. How her lashes shuttered and moved as she slept, constantly in pain, no matter what spell Morgana tried. No matter how many deer she found, Morgause still made that horrible sound when Morgana finally plunged a knife into her heart as a mercy.

Morgana has been angry and miserable, lonely and unable to trust herself for going on years now, and only some of it has to do with her sister. She has finally stopped waking up with tears on her face. Morgana will always miss Morgause, not because she thinks that they had so little time together, but because of all the things they could have been. It's not just the hugeness of the absence that stings, but the enormity of possibility. The fact that she was the final straw. Morgana’s mother, her father, even the differences in growing up at the castle  _knowing_ that she was Arthur’s sister, the king’s daughter. After all that loss and confusion, to finally be granted a sister who understood her only to have her be taken away so quickly—it’s not fair.

It feels childish to think it, almost, but there aren’t any better words that come to mind. It’s not fair, but Morgana is sick of dwelling in it. Loss is a finite space but the future is limitless in scope; Morgana has seen many of those possible futures already. A few times over.

She watches the sunlight creep in through the kitchen windows and catch in Arthur’s hair. Morgana had to kill one sibling in order to finally have the other. One golden blonde stubborn person replaced with another. One who always loved her, but never quite saw her, and one who saw her, but whose love might have been conditional, in the end. She doesn’t know what she is supposed to do with that anymore, other than hold on and refuse to destroy any of the good that’s left in the aftermath of her decisions.

But—

“What did you and Guinevere talk about?” she asks.

He passes her one of the mugs, and remains standing, shifting the spoon round and round in his own mug, stirring numbly. “You,” he croaks. “And Merlin.”

Morgana goes stiff in her chair. Her knee banging against the underside of the table with a painful jerk reflex. A single eyebrow raises a moment later to prompt him to continue, though she’s not altogether sure if she wants him to.

“Destiny,” he mutters, as though it’s a curse word.

“It’s not like that,” Morgana reminds him. “It’s about—”

“Our choices, yes,” he smiles at her, dry and sardonic. “I remember what you said.” He begins pacing the length of the kitchen, twice, before grabbing an apple and biting into it roughly, then he shoves his hair out of his face again. It needs to be cut. It must have gotten into his eyes too many times while he was fighting. Dangerous and easily fixable. Someone should have thought of that before they left, she’s surprised that Gwen didn’t. “So, as the two non-magic users in this… destiny… fuckup,” he turns and meets Morgana’s eye. “We made some choices.”

“What sort of choices?” Morgana asks him warily.

“Well… I’ve lessened the ban on magic, no one has been punished since we found you again, but I never officially ended it,” he says, completely changing gears from where Morgana thought that this was going. “So first, I want to do that,” he glances at her sideways, an old tell that he’s not sure how she is going to take whatever comes next. “With a feast, maybe. Announcing you officially as The High Priestess of Camelot.”

Her eyes go wide. “Arthur—”

He plows on quickly, talking over her and jumbling all of his words together. “The people have known that you’ve been here for almost a year now, but it’s just this limbo of ‘the king’s sister.’ We never — they’re confused, and I might still be a bit wary of magic and the things that it can do, but I’ve also seen firsthand how it can be used for good, and I don’t want to punish people for that. And… I don’t want you to leave, because you feel restricted or…” he runs his palm through his hair again, it’s pushed up in such a comical manner that Morgana has to feign taking a sip of her tea in order to hide her smirk.

“It’s a good idea,” Morgana says, once she’s managed to conceal her amusement.

“Really?”

“Of course. The ban on magic never should have been implemented in the first place.”

“Right… and, the other part?” he prods.

“What exactly would the position entail?” Morgana asks, as though this were a business proposition. She’s not entirely sure that it’s not from the way that Arthur puffs out his chest and rises, going into what she used to call ‘prince mode’ back when they were children. Now, she supposes that it should be upgraded to ‘king mode.’ Arthur at his most serious.

“You’d be my closest advisor,” he says, shocking Morgana completely. His face changes, softening, a bit, without losing any of its seriousness. “You’ve always had a brilliant head for politics, even Father thought so, when he wasn’t so angry at the thought of being outsmarted by a young girl. And you’ve always been better at getting both of us to see the people inside of the bigger picture. You’re good at it Morgana,” he says, proud, until his face twists into a teasing smirk. “When you’re not letting your temper or stubbornness get the better of you.”

Morgana snorts and throws an apple at his head. “As if  _you’re_ one to talk.”

“I know,” he laughs, holding up his hands. And he does. He’s matured, her idiot brother. They both have. “Why do you think we both need Gwen around?” he teases. His face freezes at the same moment that Morgana’s does, and they both look away from each other. “I mean, obviously there are hundreds of reasons,” he corrects. “I was just joking—”

“I know,” Morgana says, quickly.

Arthur clears his throat. “So?”

“What did the Queen have to say about that?” she asks, because though Gwen has said nearly the same thing to Morgana before… she’s already tried to take the crown off of Gwen’s head once, and she regrets it. Gwen has already forgiven her of so much, she doesn’t want to add any more to the list.

“She was the one who suggested it,” he says, grinning. “I was afraid to. For probably every reason that’s going through your head right now.”

Morgana doubts that very much. If he knew every thought that went through Morgana’s head in regards to his wife, he wouldn’t be teasing and calling her sister and offering her a position in his court.

Except… for the way that he’s tugging at his hair, and looking impossibly nervous. Morgana is suddenly beyond exhausted with the two of them tip-toeing around each other.

“So, you’re half in love with Merlin,” she says calmly. “What does the Queen think about that?”

His head snaps up, like he can't believe she went there. As if this hasn’t been their proper way of communication for years before this awkward, hesitant nonsense they’ve been playing at for months now. Honestly, has he  _met_  her? She twists her mouth into a brilliant, slightly cruel smirk and waits. Arthur reacts accordingly, which is to say, he blusters and huffs around like a prat for a solid minute before rounding on Morgana.

“She wasn’t surprised, actually,” he snaps. Clearly uncomfortable. “ _I_ was,” he adds, sounding it. “But I was even more surprised when she told me that she’s half in love with you.”

Morgana stops breathing, she’s sure of it.

Arthur takes full advantage of her immediate silence, he rambles and Morgana hears exactly none of it.  _She told me that she’s half in love with you._ Morgana balls her palms into fists to try and contain the way her magic feels like it wants to burst out of her skin.

After a moment, Arthur seems to realize that Morgana has been rendered immobile and silent. He turns and smirks, before it softens into a more considering expression. “That’s something, at least,” he says grudgingly.

“What?” Morgana gapes.

“So, you’re half in love back then? That’s good. It would make things very unpleasant and complicated if you weren’t. Also, it wouldn’t make any sense. You’ve known that Guinevere was brilliant long before I did,” he finally slumps back into the chair beside Morgana. “As usual, you figure things out long before I do,” he says, through gritted teeth. “Which is why you should be on my counsel. Which you have yet to accept, by the way,” he reminds her, haughtily.

“I — shut up Arthur!” she snaps.

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” he demands. “I’m the king.”

“You’re also my idiot younger brother—”

“—By only a few  _months._ ”

“And if I’m to be your advisor, or whatever, then I certainly get to tell you when you are being a prat—”

“—You cannot just go around saying things like that when we’re at the table.”

Morgana rolls her eyes. “Your idiot round table.”

Arthur’s whole body goes pink. “Don’t disparage my table!”

Fiona clears her throat loudly, and both of their heads whip over to look at her. Neither had noticed her coming back into the kitchens. Both of them sag, sheepish to be caught bickering like children. Fiona tries adamantly to conceal her fond smile and look stern.

“I’ve got to make something for the queen,” she tells him, giving away nothing as to how much she’s heard.

“Gwen’s awake?” Morgana asks, before she catches herself.

“Yes my lady,” Fiona smiles at the two of them as they jerk as if to jump up, but freeze midway, unsure of what to do.

“I… we can…” Arthur clears his throat, affecting ‘king mode’ a bit much as he overcompensates. “We can take it to her,” he finally says. “Once it’s prepared.”

Fiona nods and jumps to it, while Morgana resists the urge to smack her brother in the chest. Before Morgana can even shake herself enough to ask if there is anything she can do to help, Fiona is pushing a tray into Arthur’s hands, and a mug into Morgana’s. She gives them a warm, but firm smile as she pushes them out of her domain. They’ve taken up enough of her time this morning already.

Morgana and Arthur walk almost dumbly out of the kitchens and into the hall, silent as they make their way up the stairs, their shoulders knocking together.

“Arthur,” she says, noting the panic in her voice once they’re halfway to his chambers. “I’m sorry.”

He frowns, then his face softens in understanding and he readjusts the tray in his hands to balance it as he reaches over and takes one of Morgana’s hands, gripping it tightly. “No,” he says. “You don’t have to be.”

“ _Arthur—_ ”

“Morgana,” he swallows thickly. “You said it yourself, I’m half in…” his throat closes up on the word, and Morgana knows exactly how he feels. “With Merlin,” he huffs, angry with himself. “Guinevere and I talked for a long time,” he says quietly. “I suspect it’s only the beginnings of a much larger conversation that will have to involve the four of us, eventually,” he grimaces at the thought, at exactly the same time as Morgana does, and he laughs once he notices. “Yes, well.”

“Arthur, I’m not sure what—”

“How long have you known?” he asks, cutting her off.

“Known?”

“How you felt. About…” he nods towards his own chambers.

Morgana swallows. “A while,” she answers honestly.

“I thought so,” he nods. “Why didn’t you—”

“Because you’re my brother,” she says, cutting him off this time. “I’d already screwed that up once. I didn’t want to do it again.”

He smiles at her brilliantly. A full, golden, Arthur Pendragon thing that hits you right in the gut, impossible not to respond in kind. “So, because you love me?” he teases.

“Shut up.”

Morgana does smack him, this time, and steps past as she hears Amir begin to cry lightly. Signs that Gwen is awake for sure. Awake, and probably just as desperate for tea as Morgana had been when she woke. More so, if she spent the entire night up talking with Arthur.

Arthur laughs and jumps ahead of her, announcing loudly, “Morgana just said that she loves me,” as he enters the room.

“I did  _not,_ ” Morgana insists, right on his heels.

“You do, though,” Gwen’s gentle voice cuts in. “So you might as well say it.”

Morgana’s whole body reacts to the sound. Guinevere looks up at her and smiles, and even with the bloodshot eyes and hollow cheeks she is so beautiful that Morgana’s chest lurches.

“Yes,” Morgana whispers. “Here’s your tea,” she shoves it at Guinevere.  _She told me that she’s half in love with you._

“Did you bring  _me_ any tea?” Merlin asks, alerting Morgana and Arthur both to his presence. Arthur’s face does something horribly embarrassing and adorable, and Morgana very much hopes that her own reaction to Gwen had been much subtler.

From the grin etching out onto Gwen’s face, it’s doubtful.

“No,” Morgana tells him. “Go get your own.”

It’s a testament to how far they’ve come that Merlin merely rolls his eyes at the tone of her voice, and that that’s the reaction Morgana realizes she was going for, once she sees it. At this point, she only extends her tolerance and affection anywhere towards Merlin because Arthur does, and she loves her brother, but she’s annoyed to find that the idea of that changing doesn’t bother her as much as it used to.

“We didn’t know you were in here,” Arthur says, almost an apology.

Merlin shifts underneath his gaze, and Morgana suspects that he and Gwen have been having something of a similar conversation to the one that she and Arthur have been stumbling through all morning.

“I heard the baby wake,” he mumbles.

Arthur’s eyes drop to his son, in awe and disbelief. Morgana doesn’t blame him. Amir is beautiful. He looks nothing like Arthur and exactly like Gwen, and Morgana tells him so.

“Rude,” Arthur huffs, but he’s still smiling down at the baby in Gwen’s arms.

“SHE’S GONE!” a high pitched voice wails. Morgana curses herself for not leaving some sort of note, or reassurance, before she stumbled down into the kitchens when she awoke, as the sound of footsteps, comes barreling at them and Kara bursts into the rooms. Mordred is only half a step behind her.

“I’m sorry my lady, I tried to—” he grabs for her, but Kara is too quick for his hands, now, and she dodges. Her eyes are wild and panicked, and they don’t settle on anyone in the room as she starts hollering about how the knights have to go out and get Morgana. That Arthur has to order Mordred to take Kara to find her  _right now._ “KARA!” Mordred yelps, looking horrified as he glances over to Arthur. “I’m sorry sire—”

Arthur laughs and waves Mordred off. The boy’s shoulders relax. Morgana supposes that she should stop thinking of him as a boy, as he straightens and turns to her. She smiles at him, and he returns it. It might be a long time still, before she stops thinking of him as the little druid boy, despite the man he’s growing into.

“WE HAVE TO—”

“ _Kara,_ ” Morgana says, and finally catches her attention. She whips her head towards Morgana, eyes going comically wide as she stands beside Mordred. Morgana smiles down at her. “I’m right here,” she says, obviously.

“Oh…” Kara coils into herself a bit, embarrassed. “I thought… it’s only, I woke up and…” she turns around and punches Mordred in the gut. “You liar.”

“Kara, you can’t go around punching my knights,” Arthur chides, though he doesn’t sound very firm in the direction at all.

“He’s not a knight, he’s Mordred.”

“Who is one of my knights.”

Kara shrugs. “He was a druid first. We can punch who we like.” Arthur quirks an eyebrow, and Kara seems to suddenly remember herself. “I—” she looks to Morgana for help.

Morgana holds out her hand, and Kara sinks into her arms gratefully, avoiding Arthur’s eye and clinging tightly with a mixture of affection and exhaustion. “Let her be,” Morgana directs Arthur’s way. “You’ve got your own child to tease now,” she nods towards Amir.

“He’s not old enough yet,” Arthur laments. “I’ll have to use yours until then.”

Morgana blinks at the weight of his words, but no one else in the room reacts. When Morgana looks at Gwen, she’s grinning at Morgana and the sight of it causes Morgana to relax her shoulders. She doesn’t deny Arthur’s words, they’re true enough, she supposes.

“Unless you’re off after breakfast?” Arthur asks, after a beat. Everyone turns their eyes on Morgana. In her arms, Kara stiffens. Mordred’s face pinches into a thin line. Merlin frowns. Guinevere looks up at Morgana softly, open and patient, as she waits. Arthur is holding his breath.

Morgana is a bit frightened of the way that her fingers instinctively curl a bit tighter around Kara. At the notion of never hearing Mordred’s thoughts rattle around inside her skull again. At the prospect of the peace and quiet that would be left in Merlin’s absence. At the calm, easy way that Guinevere smiles, or reaches for her. Most of all, that her shoulders knocking against her brother’s as they walked together through the halls had felt  _right,_ in a way things haven’t in a very long time.

She smirks at them all, bright and wicked. “I’m the High Priestess of Camelot. I’m not going anywhere.”

Their returning grins nearly match her own. 


End file.
